


The Other Side

by ProxyOne



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Careful Hannibal, Devotion, Family Friction, Fluff, Hannibal Big Bang, Hannibal likes to paint his Willikins, Idiots in Love, Jealous Will, Jealousy, M/M, Meet the Family, Miscommunication, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Slow Burn, gratuitous art, they need to learn to use their words more effectively
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-14 18:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8023807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProxyOne/pseuds/ProxyOne
Summary: After the fall, Will, Hannibal & Chiyoh make their way to France to stay with Hannibal's aunt and uncle.  Will has come to accept his feelings for Hannibal, and is expecting their relationship to change accordingly.  Hannibal, however, is more than content to let Will come to him by himself.  Not that either of them have discussed their feelings, and when Will sees how close Hannibal and Lady Murasaki were and are, things become a little fraught...





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's it is, my first ever Big Bang fic! I have to thank my artist, the wonderful [Choreolanus](http://choreolanus.tumblr.com) for [her art](http://choreolanus.tumblr.com/post/150827496420/heres-my-piece-for-the-big-bang-which-coincides) for this fic, which is on her tumblr and also in the chapter that it goes with (chapter nine!). Thanks also to the amazing mods who helped organise this, and an extra special thanks to the members of the Cannibal Pub for helping me knock around the ideas that eventually led to this fic.

_And the sea_  
_Waits to bring me down_  
_Drown me in its waves_  
_Still I have no doubt_  
_This meaning of life_

-The Other Side, Hyde

 

There is very little Hannibal remembers after he and Will plummeted from the cliff. Mostly what he does remember is a blur of colour and sound, smell and touch and over and above all of that, overwhelming _emotion_. The black of the blood and its coppery scent, the silver of the moonlight and the way Will smelt overpoweringly of determination, of righteousness and focus and the hot fragrance of a true predator. The feel of him melting into their embrace, the way his head fit so perfectly beneath Hannibal's chin, the way the silence was broken only by the faint sound of waves below and their mixed quick, panting breaths that just as quickly slowed to a gentle, relaxed susurration. Will's arms holding him, and his own holding Will in return. All of that, and more, more that Hannibal could no more describe with words than he could paint the flavour of Will on paper, all of it stitched together into a shroud by the sheer joy, peace and love he had found there on that cliff top. Even when it had become clear that Will was tipping them over, even as they clung ever more tightly together as they fell, that feeling did not abate. If anything, it grew stronger until Hannibal was sure he could not possibly survive it.

As they were falling, he had closed his eyes, knowing they were falling to their deaths. And _that_ is the last thing he remembers, until he wakes again to find, against all expectation, against all laws of medicine and physics and probability that they _have_ survived, and not only have they survived, but they are, more or less, intact. Of even greater surprise is the fact that they are on a boat, one that had, it would later transpire, been arranged beforehand by Will and Chiyoh to be waiting for them. And so now Hannibal sits, wrapped up under a blanket, on a bed in a boat in the middle of the Atlantic, feeling quite certain that he must have hit his head and was now having some sort of hallucination. Maybe Alana has taken a page from Frederick Chilton's book and has pumped him full of drugs, and is now busily writing down her observations so she can use them against him at a later date. He squints and peers suspiciously into the corners for some sign of what is going on. All he can see are the tidy corners of a tidy yacht, one that must be more than just adequately sized judging by the spaciousness of the room he is in.

“The idea was to have our bodies taken back to your family,” Will says, a hint of wryness in his tone. He doesn't sound particularly upset, Hannibal is pleased to note. Hannibal turns with only mild surprise to look at him. Will is sprawled in a chair next to the bed, his skin mottled black and blue. His face has been stitched – a serviceable job, nothing like what he himself would have done, but he must assume that it was Chiyoh who had done the repair job, and so he must be grateful that it was done at all – and his shirtless torso is swathed in bandages. Hannibal forces himself to look away before his eyes start lingering, and it's only then that he _truly_ registers what Will was saying.

“ _Our_ bodies?” he repeats, wincing a little at how unexpectedly painful it is to speak. “My _family_?” When he's feeling better, he'll doubtless have better control over his speech, but for now all he can do is dumbly repeat what Will has already said, as though it is all out of his control. In many ways, it _is_ out of his control. Will just blinks at him, but his eyes sparkle with a hint of amusement.

“Chiyoh and I arranged it. She wasn't happy that I had lied to her about my intentions when we got on board, but she's pragmatic. I think the fact I wouldn't let her touch you until I was sure you were going to be okay helped ease her fury at me.”

This time it's Hannibal's turn to do nothing but blink. For the second time in - how long _has_ it been? Hours? Days, perhaps? Hannibal has no idea – Will has rendered him speechless.

“He was like a feral bitch protecting her pup,” floats down Chiyoh's voice, and then she's ducking her head as she comes down the stairs to enter the bedroom. “He snarled at me when I tried to help, gave you CPR until you were coughing and breathing again. Only then did he let me tend your wounds, and only under his supervision.”

Hannibal turns once more to look at Will, only to find that he is looking down at his own fidgeting fingers. Through the bruising Hannibal is sure he can see Will's face growing red, and he smiles despite himself.

“He hasn't left your side since.”

“I've sailed the Atlantic once because of you,” Will responds gruffly. “I don't feel like doing it again. Chiyoh is a capable sailor.”

Chiyoh snorts at that, but does not say anything. Hannibal, meanwhile, can not tear his eyes away from Will. He gazes upon him in wonder, an echo of what he was feeling on the cliff guiding his thoughts.

“You won't return to your family?” he asks, perhaps unkindly, but it is best for all concerned if he gets this out of the way now. He watches as Will stiffens slightly, then sags, as though a string has been pulled taut until it snaps.

“My _family_ ,” he says after a moment, and Hannibal can hear the way Will struggles to say the word, “are better off without me. I will miss them, but it's best for everyone if they believe I'm dead.”

“And you?” Hannibal asks, not willing to let this go until he's got everything he needs – everything _they_ need – from the conversation. Will may not like it now, but he knows he will be thankful in the days and weeks to come that this particular bandage has already been quickly pulled. “Is it best for you?”

“It would have been easy,” he begins slowly, obviously taking care with his words, “for me to have just pushed you over the edge and gone back to them. I could have been a hero.” He pauses for a moment, and while Hannibal feels that maybe in another life he would have been angered by the words, he now values Will's honesty. Really, he has always valued it, but he knows with this, with Chiyoh here as their witness, they can say anything they wish to. That they _need_ to say it all.

“It would have all been for show,” Will continues after a moment spent gathering himself. “I would have died with you, I know that, even if my body continued to walk around. I _knew_ that, going into this, as much as I tried to convince myself otherwise. 'The wrong thing being the right thing to do was too ugly a thought.' I said that to myself a long time ago, and it's been in the back of my mind ever since.”

He laughs a little then, a despondent sound, and Hannibal longs to pull Will into his arms. He does not.

“But now,” Will says, the sadness melting away a little, “now it's not too ugly. It's not ugly at all.”

 _It's beautiful_ echoes through Hannibal's memory, and if he heard nothing but those words for the rest of his life, he would die happy.

“I've spent too long fighting myself, fighting _you_ , and all it's done is rip people apart. It's time to stop fighting.”

He looks up then, meets Hannibal's eyes, and the conviction in them floors Hannibal. The untainted truth he sees there is too much for him to handle, and eventually he has to look away. He squeezes his eyes closed against the dampness that fills them, and instead allows Will's words to wash over him. He swallows and nods, and remains silent.

“Do you need a drink?” Will asks, and Hannibal nods again, allowing the clumsy subject change. Will has already said far more, been more open than Hannibal could ever have expected. He wonders if Will feels the new bond between them as well, the bond that began forming the moment he stepped into Hannibal's prison cell. Even from the very first moment Will had stepped inside, when the smell of his familiar and quite appalling aftershave wafted through the air, even from then, the time they were separated began to evaporate. It was as though Hannibal was waking from a particularly unpleasant dream. That feeling is amplified, now that they are free.

He watches Will as he throws on a jacket and climbs the stairs, his gait unsteady. His arm is held close to his side, and he is obviously uncomfortable moving it. Hannibal decides he will have to look at the stab wound when Will returns. He is sure Chiyoh will have done a more than adequate job of looking after it, provided Will had let her, but he knows he won't feel better about it until he can see for himself.

“I have already been in contact with Lady Murasaki,” Chiyoh says conversationally, though her eyes are as focussed on him as lasers. “She is expecting us.”

_Oh._

So that was what Will meant when he referred to Hannibal's family.

“And Robertus?” he asks. He doesn't even know if the old man is still alive. He's sure he would have heard if he had died before he was imprisoned, but he's sceptical that anyone would have even known to tell him if something had happened in the last three years.

“He was the one who persuaded Lady Murasaki to accept you.”

It stung a little, to have a reminder of how badly his relationship with his aunt had turned out. There had been a time when she was the most important person he had in his life, and while he had moved on since then, there would always be a room in his memory palace dedicated solely to her.

Still, there was a part of him now that delighted in being able to show Will a small part of his history, of the people and places who had, in various ways, been instrumental in helping smooth out the rough edges of the boy he was, to become the man he now is. He had always planned for that to be done in Florence, but that was no longer possible. Paris though … Paris was just as important to him as a youngster.

“How do you feel about that?” Chiyoh asks, and Hannibal smiles.

“Have you taken over all of my roles, dear Chiyoh?” he asks, amused at the way the faintest of flushes colours her cheeks. They are interrupted before Chiyoh can respond by the overly loud sound of Will's footsteps coming back below deck. He has a bottle of water in one hand, a glass in the other, and it occurs to Hannibal that he hasn't moved since he woke and sat up. He moves to throw the blankets back and stand, but Will rushes over to rest a hand on his shoulder. And that is all he does, just the gentlest of touches, and yet to Hannibal it is as though he has stung with a cattle prod, and of its own accord his whole body freezes. Will presses down just a touch more firmly, and Hannibal finds himself relaxing back down in the bed. It's only then that he understands him body's instinctive reaction; Will has so very rarely ever been the one to initiate touch, and by doing so, he has Hannibal completely under his control. Hannibal finds himself disinclined to fight that particular instinct; not yet, anyway.

He accepts the offered glass and drinks from it, his thirst now the singular focus of his attention. Until the water hit the back of his throat he had no conscious idea of how parched he was, but now that he's drinking, it's all he can think about. He downs the glass in only a few quick gulps, and as soon as he lowers it from his mouth Will is refilling it. Hannibal can't recall ever feeling such gratitude for such a small gesture. The second glass is finished much more slowly, and he shakes his head when Will offers him more water.

“Tell me about your family,” Will says, his voice soft and oddly stilted. He has returned to looking at his fingers as they twist around each other in his lap. The jacket doesn't appear to be doing much to warm him, goosebumps pebbling his skin, so Hannibal lifts one of the blankets he's being kept warm under and offers it to Will. He takes it with a murmured 'thank you' and wraps it around himself.

“My uncle Robertus is – _was_ – my father's brother. Lady Murasaki is my aunt. They raised me once they found me in the orphanage after the war.”

It's not much, but he's unsure where to start with any of it. He expects Will to ask questions if it's not enough for him, and he doesn't disappoint.

“How old were you?”

“When I went to live with my aunt and uncle?”

Wills nods.

“I was thirteen. I had spent some time in an orphanage after my parents and sister were killed, though you know all about that.”

Will nods again. Though Hannibal had not been there, he knows that Will had seen the house in Lithuania, had seen Mischa's grave. He has no desire to recount any of that now.

“I was close to the both of them,” he continues carefully, unsure of how much to reveal, “but especially to my aunt. She was much closer in age to me than she was to my uncle, you see, and so we had a particular bond of our own.”

He waits to see if Will asks about it, but he does not. He wonders if he should tell him anyway.

Perhaps another time.

“They raised me, both of them together, until my uncle had a heart attack that very nearly killed him. They sent me to school after that, and that set me on the path that eventually led us here.”

Will looks up at him then, and Hannibal is sure that he will ask him to fill in the holes. In truth, this story is more hole than it is information, but Hannibal truthfully has no idea where to begin. He really is relying on Will's questions to guide him. For now though, those questions do not come. Will merely watches him a moment longer, and then tells him to lie down.

“You'll need to rest, and I need to cook some food. We've been out here a night and a day, and it's time for us all to recharge,” he says, and it pains Hannibal when Will looks away.

“I should help,” Hannibal says making another attempt to leave the bed. The attempt is stopped once more by a brush of Will's fingers along Hannibal's forearm.

“Tomorrow,” Will says, and there is a promise in his faint smile.

 


	2. Chapter 2

True to his promise, Will has Hannibal in the kitchen the very next day. The weather has been surprisingly pleasant; warm enough to avoid the need to bundle up too much on deck, with enough wind to be able to use the sails and save using the motor. The first time Hannibal ventures onto the deck it is bright, and he has to squint against the sunlight for a moment. It has been so long, so very long since he has felt the wind on his face, free from restraints, and he gives in to his need to just … _be_. The warmth of the sun, the smell and taste of the salt spray on the wind, the overwhelming feeling of freedom that comes from being surrounded by so much nothingness. He had almost forgotten what it felt like. Now though, now he takes his time to savour it all. He can feel Will and Chiyoh watching him. He keeps his eyes closed for a moment longer, then looks back at them. Will looks away, as though embarrassed at being caught encroaching on something that should be private, but Chiyoh just gives him a slightly sympathetic, entirely knowing stare. In her own way, she too knows how he feels.

They spend the next few days establishing a routine. Will and Chiyoh take care of the actual sailing side of things; not because Hannibal in incapable of learning, but because his gunshot wound, while less severe than it could have been, is still more than bad enough to prevent him from doing anything too strenuous. After his protests, Will proves that to him when he unexpectedly throws a rope for Hannibal to catch, and the pain that shoots through him leaves him faint and gasping for breath. He tries to argue that Will's shoulder is in just as bad a condition, but Chiyoh teams up with Will to demonstrate that his experience helps him to compensate adequately enough, particularly since he's not sailing solo this time.

As it turns out, even the job he has been allowed to do is taxing in the extreme. He finds himself pleased that the other two had thought to stock the galley with things like a pressure cooker, meaning he can cook quickly, and while sitting down a lot. It isn't exactly how he had envisioned his and Will's miraculous escape together, but it certainly has been more practical. The stored food is predominantly made up of tinned and dried foods, but the number of spices Will insisted Chiyoh stock has gone a long way to helping.

Due to their desire to reach France as quickly as possible, they sleep in shifts, Will and Chiyoh insisting that Hannibal sleep during the night. They claim it is so he can spend his days cooking for them, but he can see in both of their eyes the concern they have for him and his injuries. He's torn over whether to feel touched to have inspired such a feeling, or to be irritated over their lack of confidence in his ability to work through something so minor. Eventually he accepts that he will be feeling a little of both, and he tries to ignore both emotions as best he can. The sleeping shifts come with one drawback, that also manages to be a bonus: Will spends a lot of time asleep, while Hannibal is awake. It means that their time for conversation is drastically reduced, but it also means that Hannibal has the opportunity to watch Will while he sleeps. He's always careful to refrain from entering the bedroom until he's sure Will is asleep, and never stays so long that he will risk waking him, but it astounds him, the peace it gives him to see Will in this way.

He takes to drawing what he sees, committing the sights to paper before folding them up in ever more intricate origami designs, then dropping them over the edge of the boat. Some of the designs sink rapidly, others bob in the water longer than he can see them. He wonders if any float atop the currents long enough to be picked up by another boat, heading to some other destination. He decides it would be nice to have one of Will's portraits live on, and so he chooses to believe that they must. He's never before been prone to such flights of whimsy, but everything about the situation he is now in has changed him. He finds it freeing in another fashion, to let go of who he was and create someone new.

Though perhaps not _entirely_ new.

“I see you watching him,” Chiyoh says one afternoon, a week into their journey, and where once there would have been reproach in her voice, there is now only curiosity.

“I find it pleasant to do so,” he responds, as his pencil carefully sketches the delicate lines of Will's face.

“He knows you do it.”

Hannibal's hand falters for just a moment, but it is enough to mar the line of Will's nose. He frowns in displeasure. His fingers twitch, his immediate instinct being to tear the page and crumple it so that no one will see the imperfection he has made of Will. He wills himself to stillness instead.

“Has he told you this?” he asks, focussing his gaze on the now ruined sketch.

“He has. He isn't bothered by it, if that's what you are asking.”

It is what he was asking, and he's not exactly sure what he should do with the information.

“He misses talking to you. This he has not said, but I see it. I see it in you, too.”

“It is none of your concern,” Hannibal snaps, and he's not sure why he is suddenly filled with a nameless, itching feeling inside. There is want, and need, love and hurt and betrayal and it's like _everything_ he has ever felt for Will is suddenly fighting for attention, fighting to be the one true emotion. He shifts his gaze to the horizon and waits the turmoil out.

***

It takes nearly four weeks to reach France, and little changes on board in that time. They work the boat in shifts. Hannibal and Will heal; more slowly than they would have on shore, more slowly than Hannibal would have liked, but heal they do, and that is all they could really have hoped for. They continue their sleeping roster, and Hannibal continues to visit Will in his sleep. He stays longer, once he knows that Will is aware. It feels less like something stolen, and more like something given. He still sketches, still folds them and sets them free. It feels profound now, this releasing of Will, even more so than when he did it for real – when he was _manipulated_ into doing it for real. Not that Will was ever truly free; Hannibal knew that perfectly even as he did it. His strings were always tied to Will, just as Will's were always tied to him. But now, things are different. Their strings are bonds freely given and accepted, so Hannibal knows that he can no longer attempt to manipulate Will; indeed, he no longer has any desire to. Anything from Will _must_ be volunteered without influence, so Hannibal is content to wait.

And so they pass by each other's orbit, all that time on the boat, and while Hannibal can feel himself drawn as irresistibly to Will as the tides are to the moon, he does nothing about it. They greet one another. Hannibal cooks for Will, Will explains different aspects of sailing, and Chiyoh watches over them both with increasingly bemused looks.

There has been no further physical contact between them, not since the first night. Hannibal longs for more; _oh_ , how he longs for more, but he cannot bring himself to initiate even a seemingly accidental brush of their fingers. He knows Will has noticed; how could he not? But he says nothing, and so they dance around each other, sometimes comfortable, sometimes awkward, and always, _always_ , Hannibal wants him.

Chiyoh radios ahead in the days approaching their arrival. Hannibal knows she has been speaking with Lady Murasaki, but he has not asked her what they have discussed. He is uneasy about seeing her again, anxious to see what difference their years apart will have made. He is also, above and beyond all of that, anxious about what _Will_ will think. And feeling anxious is not something Hannibal Lecter has experienced in longer than he cares to recall. To call it disconcerting would be an extreme understatement. Still, he is looking forward to getting off this boat, for a multitude of reasons. They're running low on food, the quarters are cramped, even if they are spacious by normal boat standards. He hasn't taken a good, long, and above all _hot_ shower in years; for reasons that elude him, finally being free has left him aching for that more than almost anything, and the longer they spend on the yacht, the more he yearns for the sensation of hot water at high pressure on his skin. What they have here is far beyond what was allowed to him while imprisoned (and there's a memory he has no interest in revisiting), so it has done for now, but he knows that once they reach land he'll be able to enjoy so much more. He watches Will climbing up from his bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and wonders if maybe a hot shower is a luxury they will one day be able to share.

“You must remain calm,” says Chiyoh when they finally spy land.

“I know.”

“You must not rise to any bait they dangle for you.”

Hannibal says nothing and just allows the anticipation to rise. No one will be sleeping today. Chiyoh has assured them that despite their escape being front page fodder across the American media, the case has barely made a ripple in most international news, and that France is no exception. Hannibal has no reason to disbelieve her, so he is relaxed on that front. Both he and Will have grown out their beards, Will's patchy and dark, his own with more silver in it than he remembers. Will's wound, now healed into a shiny pink patch of hairless scar tissue remains visible, but it is less noticeable than it has any right to be. Chiyoh did well when she stitched them both back together.

Will joins them at the helm, and together they watch the French coastline come into view. There is a sense of homecoming, in the way he imagines children returning to their parents' homes must feel. Home, but a past home, not _their_ home. Still, it is a homecoming of sorts, and he is glad that finally, _finally_ , he is coming home with Will.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Will watches Hannibal standing next to him from the corner of his eye. He's grown progressively more confused the longer they've been on the yacht. He thought he'd been clear, that night on the cliff. He thought he'd made it even more clear that first night aboard, when he and Chiyoh between them had told Hannibal of what had happened. Now though … now he's not so sure. But as he watches Hannibal gradually tense himself up, then force himself to relax, he sees that maybe it's not him at all. Chiyoh had told him in vague terms what Hannibal was expecting to head back to. He had parted ways with his aunt and uncle badly, or so Will has gathered. For now he stands beside Hannibal, and waits for Chiyoh to move below deck once more, under the pretence of needing … something, she doesn't say. Hannibal doesn't seem to notice.

“What happened? With your aunt?” he asks, and at first he doesn't think Hannibal has even heard him. He's just opening his mouth to try again when Hannibal finally answers, his posture and expression unchanging.

“When I was young, before they sent me to boarding school, there was...” he pauses for a second, as though searching for the right word. “An incident. A vile man said equally vile things to my aunt. I felt her honour was being impinged, and so, in the reckless way of a fourteen year-old, I dealt with the situation.”

Will blinks, digests the words, and finds the conclusion Hannibal was dancing around.

“Most fourteen year-olds don't kill people,” he remarks casually, and is pleased when the ghost of a smile floats across Hannibal's face.

“Perhaps,” and Will snorts at the way Hannibal says that, as though it is a perfectly expected thing for a fourteen year-old _child_ to kill someone for rudeness. “My aunt and uncle certainly were not impressed. They covered for me, believing my actions to be the product of my earlier years. When it became clear I had no remorse, my uncle had a heart attack. He recovered, but it was enough for them to wash their hands of me. They provided for my early education, but from there on I was alone.”

There is something in the way Hannibal speaks that has the gears in Will's head turning. He can't quite place his finger on it, so he asks more questions. He knows he won't be satisfied until he can understand _all_ of it.

“What was your time with them like?”

“Pleasant. I was something of a wild creature of a child, but through my aunt I relearned how to behave in society. I owe much of what I am now, in terms of my cultural education, to her.”

He speaks with a fondness that Will had not expected. It leaves him feeling uneasy. If he were prone to seasickness, he would think it was that. He is not, however, prone to seasickness.

“My aunt is much younger than my uncle, and we had a connection that was entirely between the two of us, something that helped me tame the wild beast I had inside me.”

“You were in love with her?” Will asks flatly, knowing full well what the answer is. He wants and does not want to hear what Hannibal has to say.

“My fourteen year-old self certainly believed so.”

“And your current self?” Will asks, needling away even as each of Hannibal's words makes him grasp the helm ever more tightly. Hannibal merely smiles, and does not answer for a long moment.

“No, I do not believe so. A childhood crush, as they say, on the one person who had shown me true caring, and the smallest mote of understanding. I have other things that compare more favourably, now.”

Will feels sure that Hannibal is referring to him, then, and he watches him until their eyes meet, but before the moment can come to anything Chiyoh returns. She takes over the helm, and Will steps back, going below deck to make sure everything is safely stowed.

Hannibal does not follow.

He wonders, for the hundredth time, what exactly he is doing here. Saving Hannibal was never part of his plan; saving _himself_ was never part of it, either, but the moment he surfaced from their plunge into the cold Atlantic, all he could think of was their second chance. Second chance isn't exactly accurate, though. Third? Fourth? Will has lost count of how many times they've had to reset, try again, but this is the first time that neither of them are playing any games. Somehow, the lack of games seems to be making this more difficult. Before there was subterfuge, manipulation, layers upon layers in each sentence until neither of them could quite be sure what they were really saying. There was a _framework_ , an accepted set of standards for their behaviour and their interactions. Now there's nothing, just fumbling honesty and drawn out silences.

He runs his hands across the surfaces of the bedroom, the image of an unconscious Hannibal coming to him unbidden. He couldn't recall ever being so terrified as he had been then, seeing Hannibal floating in the water like that. He knew he had loved Hannibal for some time, longer than he was consciously aware of, but that was the moment it all crystallised for him. There was no going back after that, and so he had fought and fought to keep him above water, pulling his head up and back until Chiyoh could manoeuvre the boat closer. He'd only allowed her to help him pull Hannibal on board because he was physically incapable of doing so himself, and once they were both on that deck … well, Chiyoh hadn't been exaggerating as she spoke about how hard he'd fought to make sure Hannibal was safe.

Will shakes his head, not wanting to remember either the sight of Hannibal so close to death, nor the way he felt about it. He may have accepted his feelings for him, but reliving that moment is too much for him to cope with. He looks about in a bid to still his mind, everything down here safely stowed away, ready for them to dock. Of course it is. Chiyoh is efficient and practical, and she would have done everything that was needed while she spent as long down here as she could to avoid interrupting any potential conversations she didn't want to be part of.

And yet Will can't bring himself to go back up. He knows it's ridiculous, but there's something about the look of anticipation in Hannibal's eyes that has left him feeling uneasy. If he didn't know better, he'd swear he's getting jealous, but that can't be right. Can it?

He squashes the feeling down and heads back up. There's no point in checking anywhere else. He knows Chiyoh will have everything ship-shape, as it were. There's nothing to do now but wait to meet Hannibal's family. He walks to the others, standing next to Chiyoh. He feels her curious glance at him, but ignores it. Chiyoh takes them to their berth, and Will leaps off to tie the ropes. He very deliberately does not look around to see if anyone is waiting for them. Once he's done, he helps Chiyoh and Hannibal from the boat. He's not sure either of them particularly _need_ the help, but he needs something to do. The closer they drew to land, the more and more of an interloper he began to feel, and now that they are finally here the feeling has intensified. He knows that not rescuing Hannibal, that leaving both he and Chiyoh and going back to his life with Molly wasn't an option, but he's never felt as out of place as he does now.

“I will find Lady Murasaki,” Chiyoh says, and leaves them next to the yacht. Will shoves his hands into his pockets and stands still, his gaze trained on the boards beneath his feet.

“Are you looking forward to seeing her again?” he asks, more to break the silence than anything, because he really does not want to hear the answer to that particular question.

“I am,” Hannibal says mildly. “It has been too long, and she is family, after all.”

“Maybe you can make up for lost time.”

“Perhaps,” Hannibal replies, turning slightly to look at Will. There are questions in his eyes, and Will wishes that he would just ask them, but he does not. They stand in silence, then. It's not strained, not as such. It is, however, more awkward than it ever has been. Hannibal has to know why Will saved him, Will thinks, and he wonders why he doesn't say anything about it. Why he doesn't really say anything about _anything._

“And your uncle?” Will eventually says, trying whatever he can to pull something from Hannibal.

“If I'm honest, I remember little of note about my uncle, beyond a hazy recollection of feelings. My aunt was the one who took care of me the most. But I shall look forward to seeing him once more, just as much.”

Will droops a little then. When did this, talking to Hannibal, become so hard? It was all so easy when he was ignoring his feelings. Now that they are at the fore, it's all become so difficult, so _messy_. It's a direct result of suddenly being unable to read Hannibal, Will knows that, and he's yet to work out what he should do to get things back on track.

“I don't believe I have adequately thanked you, Will. For saving me.”

Hannibal's voice shocks Will out of his thoughts, and he looks up at Hannibal once more. His eyes are clear, filled with a type of warmth that he's only ever seen a few times before. He's reminded of when they met again in the Ufizzi Gallery, the way Hannibal had looked at him like there was nothing else in the world _to_ look at. He finds himself smiling back at him, much as he had done then.

“You don't need to thank me. Saving you is saving myself.”

He's not surprised to realise that it's true. A shadow of something – astonishment? - runs behind Hannibal's eyes and is then gone again, so quickly that Will isn't entirely convinced he really saw it at all. He feels a little of what it looked like Hannibal had felt, sitting beneath the Primavera, as though the rest of the world has not only stopped, but ceased to exist both back and forward in time entirely. There is only Hannibal, standing before him with such soft eyes, eyes that no monster should ever have and yet these are Hannibal's _real_ eyes, Will knows it as well as he knows anything. This is a glimpse into the soul of a beast, and that beast is dark, and hungry, and will never be able to suppress its nature, not wholly, but it is also a beast that wants, no, _needs_ to love and be loved in return. There are precious few who have ever been allowed to see this side of Hannibal, his hidden depths, and fewer still who have been _able_ to see.

“Hannibal.”

Hannibal's eyes, so warm and open, are immediately shuttered and torn away from Will at the sound of his name. He doesn't respond, not straight away, and Will takes the time to look at the person who has interrupted them. She is … not beautiful, not as such, though Will has little doubt that once she would have been described as so. Now, what she is, is stately. Powerful. She looks to be a woman whom life has tried, and failed, to bring down. Will can see why a young Hannibal would have been captured by her magnetism. And yet her face also contains a softness, alongside a certain guarded wariness. Her long hair is pulled back, a salt and pepper braid running down her back. She is clad in warm, simple, yet obviously well made clothes, her dark red coat with its collar turned up against the slight breeze. It makes Will painfully aware of his own clothing, old, salt covered and well worn, in a way he rarely has been before.

He watches as Hannibal says nothing and bows slightly in place of a greeting, a small smile dancing on his lips. Will himself, despite not having moved from Hannibal's side, feels somehow removed from the little group, an imposter intruding on something he has no right to be witnessing. He can almost _see_ the wall that has sprung up, separating him from this family reunion. He looks away, searching for Chiyoh and finally finding her at the end of the dock, her face betraying nothing of her own feelings. It's only when he begins to step towards her that the other two acknowledge him.

“This must be Will Graham.”

Startled, he looks at Lady Murasaki to find that keen gaze fixed on him.

“Indeed this is. Will, meet my aunt, the Lady Murasaki.”

Will isn't sure whether he should shake her hand, or bow like Hannibal did. He winds up doing both, somewhat comically leaning over while his hand juts part way out.

“Hi,” he mumbles, straightening back up, his face growing redder by degrees as he takes in their amused expressions. Murasaki raises one eyebrow slightly. It's only a tiny movement, but it needles at Will in a way he can't quite understand. He grits his teeth and shoves his hands into his pockets. He gets the feeling that this may only be the beginning of a rocky path.

***

It takes longer than Will had expected to get to the house. Murasaki drives the car, a large but unassuming vehicle, Hannibal in the seat beside her, with Will and Chiyoh relegated to the back. The sour, churning mess that is his stomach has yet to settle, and Will almost wishes they were still back in Baltimore, facing whatever music would have been waiting for them here. It's unreasonable to feel that way, he knows, and yet he is powerless to stop it. There is silence for the duration of the journey. On Will's part it feels … not tight, but certainly far from comfortable. He knows that it is at least in part because he can't recall Hannibal ever looking quite so relaxed. He has always had a certain tension about him, a rigidity even through his fluid grace that could only be seen by those actively looking for it, but that has gone. He almost looks _human,_ a description Will didn't think he'd ever see applied quite so aptly to Hannibal. He wishes it was no surprise that this has coincided with the appearance of his aunt.

He can feel his fists clenching and releasing as he thinks about Hannibal telling him about her, about how he was in love – and Will has no doubts he _was_ in love, even if love at fourteen is a vastly different beast to love at fifty – and he wonders if maybe the remnants of that love, so cruelly severed, could be beginning to twine themselves back together again.

He only realises just how tense he is growing when Chiyoh's hand snakes over to his, stilling its subconscious, reflexive movements. He quickly shoots a glance at her, but she remains staring out the passenger window, her chin resting on her other hand. He looks down again and wills himself to relax, and it is only when he does that she gives his hand a gentle squeeze and retreats once more. He's absurdly grateful to this woman - a woman who has twice in the past shown no compunction about removing him from the board _-_ for this tiny show of solidarity and support.

When finally they do pull up outside a large house on the outskirts of Paris, he thinks he's managed to get himself back under control. They exit the car. Will watches in mild frustration as Hannibal moves along the gravel path with Murasaki, leaving Will and Chiyoh to retrieve the few small possessions they brought with them from the car. He opens the driver's side door to pop the trunk. Chiyoh is waiting for him when he rounds the car, her face calm, almost inscrutable but for her softened, sympathetic eyes.

“I know what you are thinking,” she says quietly, “but you are wrong. Give him time, let him get this out of his system. He will return to you.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he replies, his voice needlessly cold and gruff. Chiyoh just smiles and whispers to herself, something that sounds suspiciously like it includes the word 'boys'. Will chooses to ignore it, and instead hefts the small collection of bags. He leaves Chiyoh to bring her rifle herself, then together they turn to follow the others up the path.

He looks around, taking in the sight. It is a large house; not quite as ostentatious as Will might have expected, given how accustomed he is to Hannibal's tastes, but clearly a house for people with money nonetheless. The front lawn has a few examples of tasteful topiary, and he can see that during the spring and summer it must be a riot of colour, with flower beds scattered about the grass. The house itself is isolated, much to his relief. He's not sure if he would have been able to deal with the thought of neighbours watching them and potentially recognising them.

The clouds part as they make their way up the path, a beam of wintry sunlight falling on Hannibal and Murasaki. Between the light, and the beard Hannibal has been allowing to grow, his face seems softer somehow. Will gives himself a moment to just look, and when Hannibal looks back at him and smiles his stomach gives a little flip. The little group approaches the front entrance, large double doors currently barring their way, but as they reach the top of the small flight of stairs that will lead them inside the doors open.

An old man stands before them, dressed in tidy dress pants and a loose, buttoned shirt, his hair thin and white. His face is also thin, angular and entirely reminiscent of Hannibal's. This must be his uncle, surely, thinks Will. He finds it unlikely that there could be anyone not related to Hannibal who could possibly have those features, even if on Robertus they are somewhat toned down.

“Hannibal,” he says, an echo of the way Lady Murasaki had greeted him, but there is an undercurrent of … nostalgia, perhaps? It imbues his tone with a wistful warmth, and then much to Will's surprise he surges forward to embrace Hannibal. It seems to have come as something of a shock to Hannibal, too, if the way he stiffens is anything to go by. After a second, however, he relaxes enough to lift his arms to return the gesture. Will watches in curiosity as what must have been decades of icy silence seem to visibly melt away, Hannibal's body changing to hold the old man more naturally every second. They separate, each man taking a step back, a return to a more proper set of behaviours, but to Will it looks like something that means more than just a simple hug.

“Hello, Chiyoh. Welcome back,” Robertus says then, his voice kindly now, as though speaking to a daughter who is returning after a long trip away. Will supposes that in some ways, that is the case. Chiyoh has certainly always seemed to him like a sister to Hannibal. When she's not being a bodyguard, that is, he thinks with a wincing type of amusement. She smiles and approaches the old man, leaning up so they can kiss each other's cheeks.

“Will Graham?” he then asks, turning to Hannibal for confirmation. Hannibal nods, a light in his eyes as he does so, one that Will can't tell whether it's for him, or because of this reunion. Will thrusts his hand out, determined to do it properly this time, and Robertus takes it in both of his. His skin in as thin as the rest of him, papery, but his grip is strong.

“You're Robertus?” Will says, wishing to confirm rather than assume. “Hannibal's uncle?”

“Robert, please. Robertus is so...” he trails off into a sound that somehow manages to convey that he finds his full name both cumbersome and old fashioned. “Come in, come in,” he continues, stepping aside to usher everyone into the house. Will steps back to allow the others inside, and Robertus – _Robert_ – closes the door behind them.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The house is new to Hannibal. He's never set foot in it before, yet he feels as though he knows it as well as he knew his own home in Baltimore. There's an odd sense of – not _belonging_ , not really, that's a word that seems only to apply to his relationship with Will, but of something very close. He had expected it to be harder, somehow. But on meeting his aunt and uncle, everything has just fallen away. There is work still to be done, Hannibal knows this, but the hardest part has taken care of itself, just by being near each other once again. It is an unexpected occurrence, but a pleasant one, and Hannibal doesn't question it.

The other unexpected aspect of his return to his aunt and uncle is the overwhelmingly _familial_ bond he feels for them. He had expected at least some remnant of his former feelings for his aunt to rekindle themselves, but they have not; far from it, in fact. He's unsure if that's because his feelings really were those of an adolescent towards someone who showed affection after a long period of being starved, or whether it is because of his life, his development, his feelings for Will. He suspects it's a combination of all those things. Regardless, the only potential hiccup he had foreseen, beyond the ones they would be struggling with wherever they went, has proven to be non-existent.

Robert begins by seeing them all to their rooms. He places Will in a different bedroom, far down the hall from Hannibal, and he feels a flare of disgruntlement at it. Still, it is not as though he has been open about their relationship, if indeed it is a relationship at all. Hannibal has already decided that he will not push. If Will chooses to come to his room, it is essential that it be of his own volition.

It does not, however, stop him from feeling a pang of separation as they make themselves at home in their own rooms. Chiyoh has a room between them, which further emphasises the distance between them, and it leaves Hannibal wondering if it was done on purpose. Robert has, after all, only been privy to what has been publicly reported, and what has been publicly reported is that they have spent a large part of their relationship trying to either kill or imprison one another. Hannibal supposes that it's only reasonable for his uncle to err on the side of caution, and keep them with a barrier between them in the form of Chiyoh.

It's not long after Hannibal has entered the room that Murasaki herself joins him. She closes the door behind her and glides her way to the chair beside the bed, where she sits and watches him without a sound.

Instead of feeling disconcerted, or irritated by her wordless presence, Hannibal feels oddly comforted. That in itself is jarring, though not enough for him to do anything about it. Despite himself, he _has_ missed her, and it seems clear that on some level, she has missed him, too.

He busies himself, pulling the few clothes Chiyoh had managed to find for him after the fall out of his bag, before he decides that nothing will do. It is all desperately in need of a wash, and he piles everything back into the bag. He himself is longing for the shower, but he cannot while Murasaki is here. Finally, she takes pity on him and breaks the silence.

“I can trust you here, can't I?”

It's a statement, more than a question.

“You can,” he answers, standing up straight to focus on her. “We will only stay as long as is needed, and then we will leave you in peace, if that is what you wish. No one will ever know we were here.”

“I had my doubts,” she continues. “Chiyoh convinced Robert, Robert convinced me. I've heard about what you've done, Hannibal. And you know that when I say I disapprove, it is an understatement.”

“You've never approved,” Hannibal says, but there is no reproach, neither resentment nor bitterness in his words. He feels none; it is simply a matter of disagreement between the two of them. Her look sharpens briefly, before relaxing once more.

“Will Graham. What is he to you? Why is he here?”

“Will is my keeper, my saviour and my downfall.”

“That much I have seen. I cannot work out why he has followed you.”

“It is not he who has followed; it is I. All of this was his plan. Or rather, his revised plan.”

Something stirs in Hannibal when he thinks about Will's intention to kill them both. It's romantic; tragically, terribly _romantic_. That small something stirs more when it's reminded that when they didn't die, Will fought to keep them together.

“You have willingly leashed yourself?”

Murasaki sounds surprised, and Hannibal can't blame her. He never had been one inclined to this type of behaviour. Will has changed him, more than anyone could ever rightly know.

“I have,” he allows. “Though perhaps leashed is the wrong word. This bond that Will and I share: it is not to be shackled. It is to be made stronger.”

Murasaki looks troubled for a moment before saying, “he is like you, then.”

“Yes, and no. He is the opposite of me in so many ways, and the perfect complement in all of them. And yet he sees what I see, feels what I feel.”

“I have often wondered if you _could_ feel,” she whispers, almost to herself.

“You of all people know that I can,” Hannibal reminds her gently, and her lips thin. “That is in the past,” he finishes, and opens himself up, willing her to see that he is speaking the truth. She nods, the shadow of relief crossing her face. Hannibal should be hurt to see it, but he feels his own relief answering it. The final brick in the wall between them crumbles, and he smiles once more.

***

He stands under the shower, water hitting his skin and flowing down, and he's reminded of when he showered at Bedelia's house. He had presumed it to be long abandoned, though he couldn't truthfully say he was surprised when he stepped out to find Bedelia there.

He had hoped, that time, that washing away the blood, _Will's_ blood, would wash away his own regrets, but it hadn't at all. This time it seems to be the reverse. He knows Will is waiting in a room not too far from his own, maybe even showering himself. He smiles at the thought that they might be taking the same actions at the same time. He closes his eyes and basks in the freedom of a hot shower, such a small thing, but one that he found himself missing under Alana's care. He pictures having the opportunity to share a shower with Will. It isn't a sexual thought, though his mind has strayed there many times in the past; this time it is sensual, intimate. Just imagining having Will so close to him is enough to overwhelm him, and he rests first his forearms, then his head against the wall, letting the water rain down over him.

He stays like that for a long time, letting his mind settle. He thinks of Will, but it is abstract thought, more the memory of shadow than real thought, and he feels his body responding. The tension he had all but forgotten he has carried with him over the last three years melts away with every breath, every heartbeat bringing him back to himself. He had stepped willingly into that cage, had just as willingly remained there, but he had still not entirely anticipated the effect it would have on him. And it wasn't just the being imprisoned that did it, nor the treatment (or occasional lack thereof from Alana) that did it. Hannibal is now all too aware of what being separated from Will has done to him. The man he was before he met Will would be disgusted at his level of dependence on him, but he has been irrevocably changed, and now he not only welcomes that dependence, he _craves_ it.

Even being here, as pleasant and yearned for as this simple task is and was, he is already feeling the effects of being away from Will for so long. He finishes washing, pleased with the fragrances of the soaps and shampoos that have been provided for him, and steps out of the shower. He towels himself off quickly, tying on the robe that had been hanging inside the bathroom and steps back into his room. He notes with some amusement that his bag of dirty clothing has been removed, and a set of replacement clothing has been left on his bed. Dark trousers. A shirt, plain and pale blue. Socks, underwear, a woollen sweater. They all look new, unworn, and he dresses himself quickly, sliding his feet into a brand new pair of slippers. The clothes are perhaps a little on the tight side, but it's nothing that Hannibal can't deal with. After switching from a prison jumpsuit to old, worn, and increasingly salt-encrusted clothing, this feels beyond exquisite. He runs his fingers through his hair, still too short to really do much more with than flatten. A razor had been left in the bathroom, but he has forgone shaving, choosing to keep the facial hair that he had noted Will looking at on more than one occasion, with no more than a trim. He is confident in his reading of that particular aspect of Will; if he likes the beard, then the beard will stay. He rather hopes that Will will keep his own, though he won't be upset if he does not. There is much to be said about both appearances.

Satisfied with his ministrations, he opens his bedroom door to find Will standing on the other side with one hand raised, faint surprise on his face.

“Dinner is ready,” he says, his voice hoarse, as though he hasn't spoken in days, or as though he hadn't expected to see Hannibal like this. Hannibal is pleased to note that Will has also showered, and has been similarly dressed in new clothes, though his fit a little better than Hannibal's own. His hair is still damp, curls almost - though not quite - brushing the collar of his own shirt, a vibrant blue that sets off his eyes beautifully. Hannibal takes all of this in and his eyes drift shut as he inhales, just softly, taking in the clean scent of the man before him. He opens them again and sees Will gazing at him, his eyes soft and open, though he quickly shutters that expression when he realises Hannibal is once more looking at him. He steps back, much to Hannibal's disappointment.

“So if you're hungry,” he says, as though there were no momentary interruption to his speech, “you can come down now. Though Lady Murasaki did _insist_ that you come down.”

Hannibal knows he isn't imagining the slight note of bitterness in Will's tone, though he shrugs it off. He steps forward, the heat from Will's body radiating over him as they pass. His entire body yearns to touch Will, but he does not, walking before him instead to head downstairs and join the others for dinner.

***

Will trails behind Hannibal, forcing his eyes to the floor so that he can't watch the movements of Hannibal's body, keeping his eyes averted as they take their seats at the table. He is pleased they have en suites attached to each bedroom; when they had first arrived he had dropped his bag on his bed then turned to go and see Hannibal, only to find Murasaki almost furtively entering Hannibal's room, closing the door behind her.

It had been like the dam holding back all the stress, the exhaustion, every overwhelming emotion that he had felt since Jack had pulled him back into Hannibal's orbit broke when he saw it and he'd hurriedly retreated back into his room. He'd held a pillow to his face and let out almost soundless screams, wishing for nothing more than to break, to tear, to destroy something, _anything_. Anything to channel this, this ... whatever this _thing_ was that he was feeling. He'd settled for punching the door frame that lead into the bathroom, not too hard, not willing to do anything that would get him immediately thrown out of the house, but needing to feel it. His knuckles certainly feel it now. He subconsciously flexes and tightens his fist beneath the table, relishing the dull pain that flows through. There are bruises already, and he suspects they will grow darker before long.

The meal has been served, the room silent but for the clink of forks against plates. It is good food; objectively Will knows this, but he can't find any enjoyment in it. He knows what it says about him that he's been unable to find much pleasure in eating since Hannibal was arrested, and he finds himself idly wondering if he can be persuaded to start cooking again now that he has access to a proper kitchen.

“I must thank you, Will,” says Robert, breaking both the silence and Will's introspection, “for bringing my brother's son back to me. Chiyoh tells me this was your doing.”

He stills, unsure what to say. He slowly chews his mouthful of food, swallowing it with some effort. It seems to be some sort of lamb dish, though he does not recognise its preparation. He still cannot think of how to respond, so he just inclines his head. His eyes flick to Hannibal, who is seated at the furthest point from him, beside Lady Murasaki. They break off from a whispered conversation to look at Will, Hannibal looking as smug and amused as he can recall. It infuriates him. And still he says nothing. He looks back at his plate and cuts another bite, far more roughly that is needed.

“Will has had a long journey,” Chiyoh says, smoothly diverting attention to herself. “He has done much to help not just Hannibal, but also himself. He needs rest.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” says Robert. Will wonders what, exactly, his accent is. It has echoes of Hannibal's, but sounds entirely unlike him at the same time. “Tomorrow you must tell me all about it.”

Will doesn't miss the sharp, pointed interest beneath the jovial tone. Robert seems to be enjoying playing the old man, but Will is not fool enough to believe it is genuine. Not completely, at least.

“Yes, you must tell the both of us,” says Lady Murasaki. Will feels distinctly uncomfortable at the implication that there will be an interrogation in the future, particularly when Murasaki looks at him with undisguised curiosity. Will has rarely had trouble reading people, but he can't quite make up his mind about her. He has no idea what her motivations are, nor her intentions.

“I'll answer any questions you have,” he answers gruffly. He is, once again, absurdly grateful for the unexpected support that Chiyoh has provided. She seems to be taking him under her wing, like a wounded puppy. Perhaps that is how she sees him. He's too exhausted to care though, and in that respect she is right. He does need rest. He looks up once again to see Hannibal and Murasaki deep in conversation, though Murasaki continues to watch him without disguise. The sour feeling in his stomach begins to rise again, and he recognises it for what it is: jealousy.

He's _jealous._

He had assumed, wrongly as it turns out, that not only had Bedelia had been telling the truth when she told him what she told him, but that by finally giving in and accepting who he was, who he and Hannibal were _together,_ that he would have some sort of claim on him.

He's never been so humiliated in his entire life.

That Hannibal wants him is of no doubt, but Will is growing more and more sure that Bedelia's conclusions were vastly overestimated, and his own were flawed in the extreme. He stares down at his plate, appetite gone.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Murasaki is still unsure how she allowed herself to be convinced to let Hannibal back into her life, but now that he is here she is glad. Despite everything that she knows of Hannibal, everything that he has done, to say nothing of how much he has changed in every respect since she saw him last, she finds that when she looks at him, she still sees the same defiant little boy they had taken in. He was half wild then, skinny and dirty with no voice that he cared to use, but even then it had been clear that he would be capable of many great things. And when it had become painfully clear that great included terrible, she had panicked and sent him away.

Now she sits and watches him. He is still that boy, capable of greatness and darkness, but he is also different. Closer to human than she remembers him being as a child, and there is little doubt that the reason for that is sitting at the other end of the table, staring somewhat morosely into his dinner.

“He does not look well,” she whispers into Hannibal's ear, unable to wait until later but unwilling to let the subject of their conversation hear them.

“Chiyoh is right, he is tired,” Hannibal replies, his voice kept equally low. “He is still coming to terms with this new life, his new self. Though it has always been within him, allowing it out and casting off his old skin and all its trappings must, by necessity, take its toll.”

“And will you help him?”

“I have helped him all I can. Anything I could offer now would be interference. Once he is ready he will come to me, or he will not. Either way, the decision must be his, and his alone.”

Murasaki goes back to her meal then, chewing Hannibal's words over as much as the food. She thinks back to his confession of his feelings for her, all those years ago, the awkward, bumbling kiss he had attempted. It had disturbed her then. It no longer does, nor does she fear that he will try again. It had lurked in the back of her mind, right up until they had spoken in his bedroom, but hearing him speak of the strange man with him, watching the way his face softens in a way she never knew he would have been capable of each and every time his eyes drift Will's way … no, there is nothing to fear there. She glances over at Robert. She knows he sees it too, can see that he is amused and perhaps a little perplexed, but Robert has long since learned that there is little point in worrying over that which cannot be changed. And any worries he may have over Will Graham are being smoothed over by the relief of having Hannibal back in their midst. It's strange, she thinks, how growing old makes one crave things they have previously done perfectly well without.

Her musings are interrupted by the rather abrupt sound of Will's chair being shoved back. She watches impassively as he stands.

“I'm not feeling well. Must be being back on land after so long at sea,” he announces, still not looking at anyone or anything in particular. “I'm going to bed. Thank you for a lovely meal.”

He spins around and leaves quickly, his footsteps silent as his climbs the stairs. Murasaki looks at his plate, unsurprised to see that very little has been eaten.

“Will you check on him?” she asks Hannibal, wondering if he can see what she sees. Beside her he is still, watching the spot Will had just been in. “Hannibal?” she asks again when he doesn't answer.

“Yes,” he says, his voice as placid as his face, but she can still feel the rigidity of his body next to her. Gradually he releases his body – there's no other word for it, the way she sees it – and stands.

“Excuse me, Robert, Murasaki. I should check on Will.”

He leaves without another word, nor so much as a glance back. The three of them remain in silence, until Chiyoh speaks.

“I fear Hannibal does not have the skills to coax a frightened beast back into the warmth,” she says. Yesterday Murasaki may have agreed with her, but not today. There is something within Hannibal now, something that had not been there before.

“Once that particular frightened beast is ready, it will come to him.”

Chiyoh seems to mull it over for a moment, then returns to eating her dinner.

***

Hannibal makes his way up the stairs and to Will's door, now firmly closed. He doesn't believe Will is truly sick, and while he still does not want to push him, he knows he can't just ignore it, either.

“Will?” he calls through the door, his tone calm. There is no answer, and he knocks once more. This time there is a sound from inside, then Will's voice floating through the thick wood of the door.

“Yes?”

His voice is terse, distracted, and Hannibal frowns.

“May I come in?”

There is no answer. Hannibal contemplates opening the door anyway, but just as he lifts his hand to do so, the door opens and there is Will. His face is drawn. It takes every ounce of Hannibal's considerable will power to refrain from pulling him into his arms. They stand there and look at each other, until a flash of impatience crosses Will's face.

“Can I help you?”

His voice now reminds Hannibal of that morning all those years ago, when he had knocked on Will's motel room door with breakfast. He wonders if he would have gone through with it, had he known then what he knows now about the twists and turns their lives have taken.

“You said you were ill,” he says, shaking the memory off. It makes him uneasy, to think of them reverting to those days, and so he pushes on. “I thought I should come and make sure you're okay. It's been a long few weeks, and your body must be feeling the strain.”

Will's face softens a little at that. He seems to be debating with himself, his eyes darting around, his bottom lip sucked between his teeth where they chew on it slightly. Hannibal would be lying to himself if he said he didn't find it intensely appealing. Eventually though, he steps back, allowing Hannibal into his bedroom.

Hannibal glides smoothly through the door, Will following him. He deliberately does not look back when he hears the faint snick of the door closing behind them, but he feels a thrill run through him.

“I'm just tired,” says Will as they turn towards each other. “Nothing really for you to worry about.”

“I believe I may be the more qualified one to make that judgement,” says Hannibal with a small smile.

“Perhaps, _Doctor_ Lecter,” counters Will, smiling back in return, “but it has been a long time since you have practised medicine of any description, psychiatric or otherwise.”

“Do you really believe any of that knowledge would simply fall out of my head?”

They're standing closer to each other now. Hannibal raises a hand to rest against Will's forehead, sliding down to his cheek and watches Will's eyes flutter closed. He wishes he could keep his heartbeat under control, but just being in Will's proximity again, being allowed to touch him like this has it racing. He does frown again, however, on feeling how warm Will is.

“You do seem to be running a slight temperature,” he tells him, slipping into physician mode as easily as if he'd never left it. “Let me see your shoulder.”

Will steps back, his eyes opening again. They seem wounded, somehow, as though Hannibal has made a misstep that he has yet to recognise. Hannibal wishes he could just tell him to open up, but he wouldn't know where to begin, and isn't that the greatest of all ironies? The fall from the cliff – no, the moments before the fall from the cliff – have changed everything between them. Or maybe they haven't so much _changed_ , he thinks, as become clear. To both of them. Will holds every card in their relationship now; Hannibal can only hope he decides to hand some back to him.

He watches as Will undoes the top few buttons on his shirt, enough to be able to pull it down from his shoulder. He fixes his gaze on the wound, now mostly healed, in a bid to stop his eyes from roaming. It's much harder than it should be. He's also under no illusions as to his motives; he knows that the fever is unlikely to be caused by the the wound in Will's shoulder, but the temptation to touch, even in a cursory manner such as this, is far too great for him.

His fingers roam over the smooth pink skin of the new scar, his other hand moving Will's arm to test its movement. Will had been lucky. The knife was sharp, the cut clean, and while some damage had been done when Will had removed the blade, it wasn't enough to be long lasting. Satisfied, Hannibal moves away from Will's shoulder, running his hands up over Will's neck to check his glands. There is nothing to trouble him there, either, though he notes with a detached sort of interest that Will's heart is racing. He says as much to him.

“It is likely exhaustion from our trip. Your body didn't have sufficient time to heal, or adequately replenish its stores. You should rest. And eat.”

Will gives him a strange look as he speaks, but says nothing in reply, nodding minutely instead. He pulls his shirt back up but doesn't rebutton it. It's too hard for Hannibal not to look at him, like this; his hair a wild array of curls, chest showing through the gap in his shirt. From the very first moment Hannibal had seen him, he had been taken by Will's physical beauty, and that has only increased over the years.

He steps back abruptly, averting his eyes as he does so. The likelihood of him doing something he had sworn he wouldn't is increasing with every second he stands this close to Will, and he isn't sure that his self-control is up to the task of resisting.

“Would you like me to bring you some water?” he asks.

“No, I have a glass here. I can get water from the bathroom.”

Hannibal nods, takes another step backwards towards the door.

“If you need anything from me,” and he's aware he's pushing his own boundaries here, but he's powerless to stop, “please ask. I...” he trails off again, not sure what he wants to say.

_I will give you the moon, if you ask it of me._

_I want you._

_I'm yours._

He doesn't say any of these, just gives Will one more nod and turns to the open the door. He's stepping through when Will finally responds.

“Can I -”

He cuts himself off abruptly. Hannibal turns to face him once more, encouraging him to say what he needs.

“Yes, Will?”

Will just shakes his head.

“Nothing, it's – it's nothing.”

Hannibal takes half a step back inside, his eyes fixed on Will's.

“Anything you need, Will, I will give you.”

Will looks at him for a second. Hannibal can pinpoint the exact moment he reaches his decision.

“Can I just come and talk to you, sometimes? Away from everyone?”

A strange sort of warmth spreads through Hannibal then. Will seems to lose confidence when Hannibal doesn't answer and his eyes dart away once more, and Hannibal thinks it might be the most beautiful thing he could ever hope to see.

“Of course,” he says gently, smoothly, as though speaking to a startled animal. “Any time you want me, I am yours.”

Will's face brightens at that, only slightly, but enough to make it obvious just how much apprehension he had been holding within him. Hannibal knows he will always remember that look on Will's face.

***

The next week passes in much the same way for Will. He does spend more time with Hannibal, though they're still fumbling around each other, but it's an improvement on what they had been like on the boat. He grows accustomed to spending his mornings alone, out in the spring sunshine. He reads, he enjoys his freedom. He misses Molly and Walter, he misses his dogs. He does not miss Jack, or Alana. He doesn't miss his old life at all, only some of the people in it. He grows aware of Robert watching him, and a sense of guilty unease slithers about his insides when he realises he hasn't told his story the way he promised to. He will, though. He promises himself he will. When he is ready.

He also grows accustomed to wandering into Hannibal's bedroom. Sometimes it's in the morning, before they head down to breakfast, sometimes it's at night when he can't sleep. He doesn't even knock, not any more. Hannibal always looks pleased to see him, and Will finds that just seeing his welcoming, content expression is enough to relax him. Occasionally it bothers him, this growing dependence on Hannibal, but it's not like they haven't been here before. It's just more open this time around. It doesn't stop him wishing that Hannibal felt the same level of dependence on him, however.

Will knows he has no real claim on Hannibal, but he just can't seem to stop the jealousy that rises every time he sees him with his aunt. That they are close is without question. Hannibal looks at her with an openness Will has rarely seen on him around other people every time they speak, and they speak a lot. They're speaking right now, and Will is struggling to keep himself under control. He's walked passed Hannibal's bedroom door twice now, both times gritting his teeth when he hears the sound of Murasaki's laughter ringing out of the room. He's standing in his own doorway now, straining his ears to see if he can still hear them. It's late; normally he would have gone to bed hours ago, but he's burning to speak with Hannibal, and he can't until he's alone. It's entirely different between them, when others are around.

“You should sleep now.”

Chiyoh startles him, speaking almost as soon as she sees him from the top of the stairs. She's taken to staying up – and out - far later than the rest of them. Will has occasionally wondered what she's doing, but has never asked. She's the only one of the three of them who has the freedom to leave the house, to go into Paris properly, and she takes advantage of that.

“I'm just -” he stops. What is it he's 'just' doing? Listening out for Hannibal like some lovestruck and more than slightly obsessed freak? His shoulders slump a little.

“Am I losing him?” he whispers, astounded that the words have come out at all, let alone to _Chiyoh_ of all people.

“You didn't lose him after you set him up. You didn't lose him after he turned himself in for you, after he spent three years rotting in a prison cell. Why would you lose him now?”

“I don't think I've ever read him properly, have I?”

“I told you once there are means of influence other than violence. This is just as true now as it was then, if for different reasons.”

Will can only stand and blink stupidly at her, his tired mind swimming around the words. She smiles and moves into her bedroom with a murmured 'goodnight'. The click of her door seems to throw a switch in Will, and he retreats back into his own room, pensive and exhausted.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Three weeks they have been staying with the Lecter family, and while Will has gotten into the habit of coming to see Hannibal in his room at all hours, things have not progressed any further. Objectively, Hannibal knows that three weeks is only a short amount of time, even when added to the four weeks they had spent sailing here, but his confidence is beginning to falter. Their shared moment of complete, total intimacy on the cliff top should have opened doors for them both, but if it has, Hannibal has no idea where they are.

Their evening conversations are certainly closer to the ones they had years ago, but every time Hannibal thinks that perhaps Will might share something intimate once more, the moment is broken and Will leaves.

Hannibal is beginning to think this is all they will ever have.

He's never really had to deal with not getting what he wants; not since things with his aunt and uncle fell apart, at least, and that was an entirely different situation. The bitterness of soft rejection wars with the overwhelming joy he feels just having Will near him, choosing to stay with him despite, or perhaps even _because_ of everything. He feels like he imagines a shaken bottle of wine must feel, sometimes, his conflicting thoughts and barely controlled emotions fighting to be released only to find themselves stoppered and kept where they are. He has found an unexpected confidant in Murasaki, however. She listens, and does not judge. He wonders if Bedelia would have been the same. He had spent long enough talking to her about Will, more than he had realised at the time. But no, she would have tried to fix it, to make Hannibal see that what he is feeling isn't real and can never happen, regardless of the truth of the matter. He still hasn't forgotten that it was she who planted the idea in his head to kill and eat Will in Florence. He has to admit, he is still impressed at the deftness with which she manipulated him. He hadn't even noticed it until it was already too late. Murasaki, however, does not offer advice. She merely listens, and distracts him when he needs to be distracted.

“He shaved today,” Hannibal says, swirling his wine in his glass. He is sitting with his aunt in the kitchen. The others have all retired for the evening, leaving the two of them to their devices. He's not sure if Will will come and see him tonight. He hopes he will, but he needs to talk to Murasaki first.

“I had noticed,” she comments wryly, an amused look on her face.

“And yet he still has not cut his hair.”

“He does seem to have developed a liking for styling it though, this past week,” Murasaki notes, taking a sip from her own glass. “It is quite unlike the first weeks you were here.”

“He is growing restless.”

“That he may be. There is not much to do here, unless one knows where one's interests lie.”

“Will knows where his interests lie. He has nothing here, not yet.”

“Doesn't he, I wonder?”

Murasaki looks intensely amused now, more than just the usual low level sparkle in her eyes when Hannibal discusses Will with her. He has yet to work out their relationship; Murasaki seems more than fond of Will, but Will has yet to warm to her. His words to her are usually terse, clipped, when they can even be dragged out of him at all, and he often finds other places to be when she enters a room they are in.

Robert is quite different again. He and Will haven't had much interaction outside of their shared mealtimes, and it's an arrangement that Robert seems perfectly content with. He watches Will sometimes, a far away look in his eye as though something about Will has the wheels turning in his head, but aside from that first night he has not pressed him for any sort of information. He is pleasant enough, but he doesn't push either Will or Hannibal, locking himself away in his work room to paint more often than not. Hannibal wonders what he's working on, and if he will show it to them. He finds himself nostalgic for his uncle's old paintings, nostalgic for the feeling of watching someone else's art come to life. He thinks he might go and take a look soon.

“I think you underestimate Will's capacity for developing new interests,” says Murasaki, still not losing the look on her face that makes it seem she is implying more than is conveyed by just the words themselves.

“I have made it clear that if he needs something, he need only ask it of me. There is little I would not do to help him.”

“Perhaps he only needs some encouragement. Sometimes, in new situations, we do not know how to articulate what it is we want.”

Hannibal mulls her statement over. She is right, of course. She is even more right when that is applied to Will; he's always been somewhat standoffish when it comes to his wants, or accepting that he even has desires that can be fulfilled. Their entire friendship has revolved around his inability to accept what he really is and what he truly wants. Still, Hannibal had hoped that finally knocking that wall down would allow the others to crumble.

“Perhaps,” he allows, unwilling to commit to anything, even within his own mind. He changes the subject though, fearing the way discussing Will makes him feel.

“I'm going to draw tomorrow, I think. Watching Robert is inspiring me.”

“Just watching your uncle? I would think there is a lot more around here that could inspire you.”

“Indeed there is,” Hannibal replies with a small smile. “The grounds here are quite lovely.”

Murasaki just nods her head, her smile never vanishing.

***

“Where do you go, when you leave us here?”

Murasaki is taking a rare moment to speak with Chiyoh alone. She has missed her dreadfully, the years she has been gone. No one has told her where she has been, and she does not like to demand, but she has missed her.

“I go into Paris,” she replies. “It is nice, just to be able to walk around without worry. Sometimes I eat, sometimes I shop. Sometimes I do nothing but look, and admire.”

Murasaki nods. She can understand the need to remind oneself of their freedom. She has the distinct impression Chiyoh has seen precious little of it.

“Hannibal and Will,” she says, deciding to cut to the chase. It is far easier to be forward with Chiyoh. She is removed from the situation, and more likely to give her true answers. “What is the nature of their relationship?”

Chiyoh thinks on that for a moment, seeming almost hesitant to answer. Murasaki is patient; she will wait while Chiyoh decides what to do. If she chooses not to reveal anything, she will say so, rather than hide behind half truths and semi-believable lies.

“I'm not sure they know themselves,” she finally says. “There is a bond there that no matter how they try, they cannot sever. I don't believe they even wish to try, not any more.”

Murasaki nods. She has seen that, but it is pleasing to hear that she has read them accurately. Hannibal, at least, has done nothing to hide it from her, but Will is an almost entirely closed book, an enigma.

“Have they ever been lovers?”

Chiyoh shakes her head.

“It would take only a small push,” she says slowly, choosing her words carefully, “but one that neither of them are able to make themselves. They dance an intricate dance, swaying close and then far again, but they have yet to collide in that fashion. In all other respects, though...”

She trails off, and Murasaki finishes her sentence for her.

“They are lovers in all but the physical definition?”

Chiyoh nods.

“The both of them are … infuriating.”

She says it with a smile, one that Murasaki understands entirely. She imagines this is what it must be like to watch one's children, fumbling about as they attempt to connect with their first love. She shouldn't take as much amusement from it as she does, but she does, and she thinks she might indulge herself a little longer.

“It would take only a word from either of them to end this charade,” continues Chiyoh, “to finish this farce of being no more than particularly close friends. Will is jealous of you, do you know?”

Murasaki raises an eyebrow, surprised but not surprised.

“Does he know?” she asks.

“He does. Hannibal told him while we were sailing. The foolish man doesn't know what he has done with his words.”

“Hmmm,” Murasaki hums, tapping a finger against her lips. She could use this information, should it become necessary.

***

It takes a few more days for Hannibal to finally decide to take up his art again. He hasn't drawn at all since they got off the yacht, and his fingers itch to release some of the creative tension that looking at Will every day has built up.

He knocks on Robert's studio door, entering once the gruff “enter” rings out. He looks around, smiling at the well stocked artist cupboards that line the walls. There is anything he could hope for here, from charcoals and paints of all varieties, to papers and clays.

Robert looks up at him, a distracted smile crossing his face.

“Hannibal!” he exclaims, wiping his fingers. “What can I do for you?”

“I came to see what you are working on,” says Hannibal, “and to borrow some paper. Charcoal as well, if you would let me.”

“Of course, of course,” says the old man, standing from his chair behind the easel with a grimace. “Help yourself. If there is anything you need that isn't here, let me know and I'll get it ordered in for you.”

Hannibal nods, moving around the room to collect papers and charcoals. As he does so he glances over to look at what Robert is working on, and what he sees fills him with a mix of surprise, disgust, and no small amount of rage.

“What is that?” he asks, his voice calm and controlled.

“Hmm?” asks Robert, blinking as he looks at the canvas. “Oh! I thought he needed to be painted. He does rather have a face that begs to be captured, doesn't he?”

“No.”

“No?”

Hannibal _seethes_ as he looks over Robert's partially completely work. Will's face is almost entirely done, and if it were only that then Hannibal would have stood back and admired his uncle's skill. No, what has him roiling with rage is the fact that Robert has sketched out what is clearly intended to be a fully nude portrait of Will. The fact that thus far he has been concentrating mainly on his face is irrelevant.

“No. You will not complete this, nor will you paint a new one after I take this one away.”

Robert merely raises his eyebrows, entirely unperturbed.

“Oh? Are you telling me what I may and may not do in my own home, a home, need I remind you, that I have opened up to you and your friend here, at great risk to my own freedom?”

“Of course not. I am, however, telling you that you may not do as you please with Will or his image, since I find it highly unlikely that he has given you permission for this.”

Robert shrugs.

“I wasn't aware that you were here to defend his honour.”

“Will is dear to me, as I'm sure my aunt has told you,” Hannibal answers with narrowed eyes.

“Fine,” says Robert, gesturing towards the half done painting. “Take it if you must. Though I might suggest covering it up. The paint is dry enough for that.”

Hannibal does just that, throwing one of Robert's sheets over the top and lifting the canvas. He leaves the room, forgetting about the charcoals he had originally gone in there for, and entirely failing to notice the satisfied smirk Robert is wearing.

 


	7. Chapter 7

He has the painting in his room, now, an easel set up and a collection of paints already half used up. He hadn't intended to finish it, hadn't intended to keep it at all, but Hannibal had found himself entirely powerless to resist its allure. The first night he kept it covered, propped up against the wall in a corner. Will hadn't noticed it; Murasaki had, but said nothing. The second night he had a look, just a quick peek, and without even consciously being aware of it had begun mentally composing the rest of the sketched body, changing parts he knew to be inaccurate, accentuating others. He dreamt of it, while he slept that night.

And now, a week later, he has succumbed entirely and is hard at work in the middle of the night, finishing it off. Of course, now that it has been set up to be worked on properly, Will has been noticing it. Hannibal keeps it covered whenever there is the possibility of Will arriving in the room, which, if they are both honest with each other, is any of the daylight hours, which is why Hannibal is spending his nights working on it.

Will has yet to ask, though Hannibal can see he dearly would like to. He has stopped keeping anything from Will, telling him anything he wishes to know, but the painting has been notable in the way they have both avoided mentioning it. Hannibal highly doubts that Will would be impressed, and so he is intent on keeping it a secret. It is his one indulgence, his one outlet of weakness, given that he now knows that some aspects of what he had envisioned for the two of them are unlikely to ever come to pass.

He sighs, hovering a finger tip over the curve of Will's hip. He has spent many hours on this, now, too many hours spent in his mind palace so he can accurately reconstruct Will's form. It makes him crave.

He's lost in thought, his fingers still wavering above the painting before him as though he could somehow touch the real Will through the image in front of him, when he hears a shuffling sound outside his door. He hurriedly throws the sheet over the canvas and moves to the door, opening it and peering through the gap. Outside is a sheepish looking Will, his hair wild and unkempt, longer than Hannibal has seen on him in many years. He likes it, likes the way the chaotic nature of his curls frames his face. He has imagined, more than once, how it would feel to have those curls between his fingers, how it would feel to grab handfuls and tug on them. He takes a deep breath to will his body back into submission, noticing the way Will frowns as he does.

“Sorry, I know it's late. I couldn't sleep. Noticed your light was on, so I thought...”

He shoves his hands into the pockets of the robe he has taken to wearing at night. It's a motion that he has done repeatedly over the years, one Hannibal had noticed early on when he would do the same thing as he walked about his office while Hannibal would sit and watch him. It's something Hannibal has always found strangely endearing.

He glances over to the painting, prepared to invite Will in, but when he sees that the cover has fallen, leaving the painting entirely exposed, he stops.

“I'm sorry, Will,” he says, angling his body to make sure Will can't inadvertently see the canvas through the gap in the door. “I'm about to go to sleep.”

He knows he sounds terse, off, but it's been so long since he's been able to maintain his control where Will is concerned that he's given up even trying. It's better for Will to think him a liar than for him to see the real reason he would prefer him not to be in this room. It doesn't stop the pang of regret that stabs his core, though, when Will's face flickers with hurt, then smooths out into a calm mask.

“Okay,” he says, his voice even enough. He stands there a moment longer, the two men fixed in a joint gaze at one another, until Will finally averts his eyes and looks back to his room. “I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Goodnight, Will,” Hannibal says warmly, or as warmly as he can manage. He wishes he could reach out for Will, wishes he could pull him in and do whatever it is that Will needs of him, but it's for his own good. And for Hannibal's, as well; he knows Will would be less than impressed if he saw what Hannibal is so carefully trying to hide from him.

“Yeah,” Will says as he turns and makes his way back to his own room, hands still shoved into his pockets. Hannibal watches him as he walks, and he isn't ashamed to be caught when Will turns back to look over his shoulder when he reaches his door. They watch each other for a second longer, until Will turns back to open his door, disappearing inside without another word.

***

Will hadn't sleep that night, and now he finds himself moving around sluggishly, his mind a fog. He knows it was hardly reasonable of him to expect Hannibal to be ready and willing for him to come barging into his room at two in the morning, but they'd never really had any recognisable boundaries between them, and when he'd seen the light shining from under Hannibal's door he'd thought … he doesn't know _what_ he'd thought, or if he'd even really thought at all. He'd just been seized with the need to see Hannibal, hear his voice, but when he'd seen the way Hannibal was clearly trying to hide something from him he'd just shut down. He needs to see what

_(who)_

Hannibal was hiding from him, if whatever

_(whoever)_

it was is even still there.

This morning had been one of those rare mornings the entire house was gathered at the same time for breakfast. Chiyoh hadn't gone on one of her journeys into Paris, Murasaki and Robert were both up early, and Will had been left with no opportunity to speak privately with Hannibal. Still, he found himself absurdly grateful for Chiyoh's presence. If any one had told him that they would be a source of support for each other before the plunge off the cliff, he would have thought them delusional. Now though, she seems to be acting as a touch stone for him. He wonders what she gets out of it. Perhaps there is some truth to his assumption that his ferocity in trying to save Hannibal had changed her view of him. He certainly feels much closer to her as a result of it.

Regardless, her subtle nod towards him when he had clenched his jaw as Hannibal chose to sit beside Lady Murasaki had helped, and while he can't control the roiling jealousy within him, it does provide a certain aura of calm to know that she supports him.

After breakfast everyone had vanished; Chiyoh had brushed past him with a whispered 'you are doing well', Hannibal, his aunt and his uncle had all retreated back to their rooms. Will had gone into the kitchen to stack the dishwasher, the mindlessness of the task helping to settle him. These small tasks that allowed him to get caught in a rhythm were always something he had always found soothing during those years without Hannibal, when even Molly's calm, bright presence wasn't able to soothe him and he could feel himself on the verge of lashing out. Now that he is done, however, he finds himself at a loss. Being confined to this house is beginning to get to him, and he envies Chiyoh's ability to find freedom, while he remains here, trapped and isolated. Even though Hannibal is here with him, he feels cut off. He hadn't realised just how dependent he had become on being the sole focus of Hannibal's attention, and now that he must share it it leaves him feeling abandoned. He despises himself for it, for being so weak, so unreasonable, so irrevocably in love and unable to do a damn thing about it.

He slams the dishwasher door shut and rests his hands on the bench, his head dropped down and his eyes closed. He breathes, willing his body to relax. He needs to talk to Hannibal about this, he knows he does. It terrifies him. He doesn't know why; he knows that Hannibal returns his feelings. Or rather, he knows that he used to. Being here, being in Hannibal's past, has changed things and Will isn't sure if they can get them back. He isn't sure if Hannibal even wants to go back. Maybe for Hannibal the teacup that has gathered itself has Lady Murasaki's face on it.

He sighs and straightens up. Standing here getting lost in his own thoughts and fears is going to help no one, least of all himself. He leaves the kitchen and heads to Hannibal's room.

He all but runs up the stairs, a strange excitement humming through his body now that he's finally made the decision to act. Hannibal's door is closed, as it often is, but Will has gotten into the habit of just flinging it open regardless and wandering in. Hannibal is always pleased to see him. Last night was the first time he had been anything less than welcoming, and Will can hardly blame him for it.

He opens the door; or rather, he tries to – for the first time since they have arrived here, it is locked. Will jiggles the door handle a couple more times in confusion before lifting his hand to knock on the door.

“Hannibal?” he calls, entirely unsure whether he should even continue with his plan. He clearly does not wish to be disturbed. There is a rustling from the other side, so Will waits. He stands only a moment, and the door opens, Hannibal looking flustered and mildly surprised.

“Will!” he exclaims, and while he still looks surprised, it is at least surprise mixed with pleasure. His eyes dart over to the corner of the room again.

“Can I come in?”

Once more Hannibal's eyes shift, and it's then that Lady Murasaki comes into view. She has been standing in the corner, and she watches Will now with amusement.

“Don't let me interrupt,” she says, gliding smoothly from the room. “I am finished here, I believe.”

Will can't stop the way his eyes narrow as she leaves. The sour feeling in his stomach is back.

“Busy, were you?” he says, his voice cold. He wishes he could stop his frankly juvenile behaviour, but he seems to be entirely powerless. The poison of his jealousy has him completely in its icy grasp and there is nothing he can do about it.

“My aunt is proving helpful in a number of ways,” Hannibal says, seemingly unaware of how Will is feeling. Unaware, or uncaring; Will has no idea which would be worse. “Bedelia was once helpful in the same fashion, though I imagine she is not quite so eager to see me now.”

“I see,” says Will, and he turns on his heel. He's hurt, and he's angry, and he knows if he stays in front of Hannibal any longer he's liable to lash out in a way he will end up regretting. Hannibal calls out to him as he storms down the hallway, but he ignores him and heads outside. He can surely find some alone time in the back yard, away from all the things that are making his head spin so furiously.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Hannibal, Robert and Murasaki finish their breakfast, leaving Will and Chiyoh to whatever it was they were doing. The frost between Hannibal and Robert has thawed over the time Hannibal has spent working on the portrait of Will; indeed, by now he even feels a strange level of gratitude towards his uncle for giving him such a satisfactory outlet for his desires and frustrations.

“So is it finished?” the old man asks, the same twinkle in his eye he always gets whenever the topic is brought up.

“It has a few finishing touches required, but yes, broadly speaking it is done.”

They take a few more steps, a thought that Hannibal has been mulling over for some time suddenly forcing its way to the forefront of his consciousness.

“I do believe,” he says, choosing his words carefully, “that you meant for me to eventually see that painting.”

“Now what could I ever hope to gain by doing something like that?” Robert asks, the twinkle far from fading in his eyes. If anything, he looks even more entertained than he had before.

“What indeed,” Hannibal says, looking sideways at his aunt. She stares resolutely ahead, no indication that she is listening to the conversation between her husband and nephew at all, apart from a slight upwards curve of her lips. “Would you like to see it?”

“No, no, I think I'll leave that one for you,” replies Robert. “I do need to go and work on a few other pieces, however, so here I shall say good day.”

Robert turns and heads down to his studio with a wave over his shoulder and a bounce in his step. Hannibal and Murasaki find themselves heading up the stairs together.

“Would _you_ like to see it?” Hannibal asks, something of a spur of the moment question, but he finds himself eager to show his image of Will off. He can trust Murasaki to be discreet about what he shows her, and he knows she would appreciate it. He doesn't deny, not even to himself, that this is just as much about him seizing the opportunity to discuss Will once more, as it is about showing off his own work. He has little doubt that Murasaki must tire, at least somewhat, of his constant need to talk about Will, but she indulges him in a way no one has since he was a small boy. It's addictive. At least this time around he's aware of his fixation, in a way he was not with Bedelia.

They make their way into his room, Hannibal locking the door behind them. It seems safer, that way.

“So. Let me see this masterpiece,” she says, crossing her arms in front of her as she looks towards the covered canvas expectantly. Hannibal pulls the cover off, revealing the painting. Will is depicted nude, as Robert had intended in his initial sketched out lines, but much nearer to the Will that Hannibal remembers from three years ago. When he had changed him then, he hadn't stopped to ogle and most certainly had not touched any more than was necessary, but the glimpses he had taken were seared into his mind. Despite himself, he had visited those images often; they were irresistible.

Now he gazed upon the image before him once more. It did not do justice to the real thing; nothing ever could, but it still gave him pleasure to see it. It was not a sexual pleasure, any more than it was a sexual image. Rather, it was the pleasure of seeing something beautiful captured in a moment, no matter how imperfectly, the pleasure of a job done well, the pleasure of sharing something so important and so intimate with someone who could maybe, just maybe, understand _why_ he was so pleased with it.

“He is a beautiful man, Hannibal, and you have done well capturing his likeness.”

“He is, though I fear, like all artists fear, that my work does not come close to adequately portraying the real thing.”

“That all depends on which eyes are viewing it, I feel.”

She looks at him with a smile then, though he is barely aware of it. He is lost in remembrance, thinking of the day he could have run for freedom, never to be seen again. Instead he had rescued Will, carried him for hours through the snow until he reached his house in Wolf Trap, then carefully cleaned and dressed him, treating his many wounds as he did so. The thought of leaving Will that night had never seriously been entertained by him – it had crossed his mind, yes, but only as part of a long list of possible options that were examined then immediately discarded. He couldn't deny that he'd hoped Will would come away with him, finally, but he hadn't been entirely surprised when Will had refused, either. In the end, though, Hannibal's patience has paid off. True, it isn't exactly the relationship Hannibal had hoped for, but what they have now is enough to keep him sated. Knowing Will is here with him, not leaving, that is enough for Hannibal. He is content to keep the rest of his desires locked away within his mind, and behind the sheet.

He has modified the painting to resemble that long night, Will sprawled back on the bed, one arm flung back behind him, the other lying at his side. His legs are parted, one knee raised. It is a picture of exhaustion, his eyes closed and face almost, but not quite, blank in its troubled half-sleep. His cock lies soft against his leg, though strangely, it doesn't capture Hannibal's attention the way he had thought it might. Instead he finds himself intrigued by the way the light plays across the curve of Will's hip, the peaks of his nipples, the line of his jaw. Will is beautiful in the moonlight of the image, a wolf temporarily at rest. He doesn't realise he's reached out to touch the cold, flat surface until the door knob rattles.

He snatches his hand back, glancing towards Lady Murasaki, who smiles knowingly at him. He frowns slightly, shifting his attention to the door. It must be Will; Hannibal can think of no one else in this house who would continue to rattle the handle of an obviously locked door. His assumption is proven when there is a knock, and Will's voice floats through the wood.

“Hannibal?”

His voice is puzzled, though the tone does nothing to stop the way Hannibal's core tightens and shivers at hearing Will say his name. It had always been such a rare thing for him to hear, and he doesn't think he will ever quite get used to the way it sounds coming from Will's mouth, the way his tongue and lips draw out and caress each syllable.

“Will you let him in?” Murasaki asks, her voice kept low. “If you are going to, will you cover that up or allow him to see the way you see him?”

Hannibal looks at the painting for only a moment before moving to re-cover it. He doesn't miss the almost silent sigh that comes from his aunt, but he doesn't have time to question it. Painting adequately hidden from sight, he moves to the door.

“He would like to see how you see him, I think,” Murasaki says. Hannibal almost turns to ask her what she means, but his hand is already on the door handle, his body singing to see the real Will, rather than just an image. The door opens almost without his conscious control, and he's certain Will must be able to see how unsettled he is.

“Will!” he exclaims. Half of him is dying to pull Will in, to test Murasaki's theory of Will needing to see what Hannibal has done, while the other half wants to shut the door and grill her for every last bit of information she can provide. Once upon a time he would have been able to do so with Bedelia; he should have done so with Murasaki, as well, instead of pouring out his every last feeling about Will without asking what she saw.

He looks over at her, just a flick of the eyes. He wonders if he should take her advice.

“Can I come in?” Will asks. Hannibal looks at Murasaki again, and decides she is right. His own manners would dictate that creating something like this then hiding it from Will is impolite, at best. She smiles, a pleased smile, and moves to leave the room. She slides out through the door, giving Hannibal another small smile as she passes Will.

“Don't let me interrupt. I am finished here, I believe.”

He gives her a nod as she leaves. This is as close to giddy as Hannibal can recall ever being.

“Busy, were you?”

“My aunt is proving helpful in a number of ways,” Hannibal says, watching as Murasaki descends the stairs. He is more grateful to her and her subtle help than he can express. “Bedelia was once helpful in the same fashion, though I imagine she is not quite so eager to see me now.”

“I see.”

Will turns and quickly leaves, the anger radiating off him now obvious. Hannibal has no idea what has triggered it, nor why he failed to notice Will's discomfort until now.

“Will!” he calls, desperate to have him return, but he vanishes down the stairs before Hannibal's voice has finished that single syllable.

***

Dinner that night is fraught and uncomfortable, and everyone can feel it. Chiyoh had planned to go into Paris today, but in the end had decided against it. Part of her now wishes that she had gone, and that she'd stayed late. Will has been stomping around in a black mood all day, and hasn't seemed to care who knew it. Chiyoh had watched from a distance as he had gazed at Hannibal whenever he'd come into view, half mournfully, half bitterly, and wondered what had happened between them that morning. Hannibal himself is out of sorts, as well. His typical verboseness has been replaced with distracted, minimal responses, no matter who spoke to him or what they said. Will is the very notable exception to the list of people who have attempted to speak to him.

It is frustrating for Chiyoh to watch, like having to bear witness to the fumblings of a pair of twelve year olds in their beginning attempts at first love. In many ways, she supposes, it is an accurate description for the both of them, especially for Hannibal. More than once she has wanted nothing more than to lock them in a room together until they worked it out. She suspects Lady Murasaki has as well, given the way she is looking at the both of them right now.

It is very clear to Chiyoh that the two of them can see no one but each other, and she can't work out why two people who know each other so well – and they _do_ know each other, better than any other two people could possibly hope to – can't see that. Will's jealousy is no longer hidden, as he sits in his seat glowering at Hannibal and Murasaki through his now absurdly long fringe.

Chiyoh knows that Murasaki and Robert aren't comfortable just telling Hannibal – or Will, for that matter – what they need to know, since they are too dense to work it out themselves, but she also knows that Murasaki has been attempting to guide Hannibal into reaching the correct conclusion himself. Whatever she's been doing, however, doesn't seem to have worked in the slightest, because now Will is the personification of a thunder cloud, while Hannibal seems bewildered by everything, and _there's_ a sight she never thought she'd see. Calm, controlled, _capable_ Hannibal Lecter, flummoxed by a scruffy, ill-mannered teacher.

Despite herself, Chiyoh smiles. She hadn't thought she'd have it in her to do much more than tolerate Will Graham, given their history, but she finds herself genuinely liking him. He's a good person, and his love for Hannibal, for all he has always denied it, tips the scales in his favour. She's aware of the way her criteria for 'good person' are a little skewed compared to the general population, but when Hannibal has for so long been her frame of reference, she can't expect anything else.

Will happens to look over at her then, sees her smiling, and somehow manages to scowl even more.

“Will, perhaps you can tell us what has you so worked up.”

The unexpected voice comes from Murasaki, her keen gaze fixed on Will. Chiyoh can see, even from here, _exactly_ what she is doing, and she wonders if it will work. Hannibal is watching Will with apprehensive interest. They've not spoken since this morning, as far as Chiyoh can tell. She wonders if this is going to provide the spark that will set the whole powder keg alight.

“I'm not worked up,” he grinds out, digging his fork into his food roughly, then shoving it into his mouth. Chiyoh thinks this is going to provide more than a small amount of entertainment.

“I may not be a psychiatrist like my dear nephew here,” says Murasaki, running a hand along Hannibal's biceps, up over his shoulder, “but even I can read your body language.”

Chiyoh steals a look at Robert, to see what he makes of this little display. His face is red, his lips twitching as he watches in rapt delight. He has remained quiet throughout all of this, doing little to draw attention to himself, and Chiyoh can see why now. She has little doubt that he and Murasaki have concocted this between them, as much for their own amusement as anything. It seems to be a family trait, to play with people like this, but Chiyoh can't deny that something needs to be done about Will and Hannibal.

“Yes, he is your nephew, isn't he? An interesting way of showing that relationship you have there.”

Will's voice is calm and even, and he lifts his glass to his lips, glaring defiantly at Murasaki. Hannibal's brow wrinkles as he realises what's going on, and Chiyoh can't believe that his own feelings for Will have left him so blinded that he's only now working it out.

“I have watched Hannibal grow from a small child into the man he is today.”

Will snorts.

“And you think that makes your attention appropriate? I would argue the opposite.”

“And what attention would that be, Will?”

She has slipped her arm down Hannibal's back now, while Chiyoh and Robert's heads turn from side to side with each exchange, as though witnessing a particularly intriguing tennis match.

“Oh please,” Will snaps with disgust. “You've barely left his side since the moment we arrived. I don't know what you think you're going to get out of this little _display,_ but it's wrong.”

“Will,” Hannibal says, his voice a blend of warning and yearning.

“You've made your choice, Hannibal,” says Will, standing from the table. Eyes trained on his hands, his face is pale, his voice quiet and rigid. “I'll be getting out of your hair now.”

He turns and heads quickly for the stairs, and Chiyoh's heart breaks for him. She knows Murasaki has no interest in Hannibal, knows that Hannibal in turn has only ever had eyes for one person. It is cruel, to toy with him in this way, but Chiyoh can also see the logic behind the cruelty. Neither of them will ever do anything without being pushed into it.

“Will,” Hannibal says, almost a whisper as he stands, throwing Murasaki's hand from him. He turns to his aunt, his face flat and emotionless yet still promising pain if need be.

“What was the point in that little performance?” he all but growls.

Murasaki gives a small shrug and smiles at Robert who is wearing a more delightedly entertained look than Chiyoh has ever seen on anyone.

“Neither of you can see what is plainly obvious to all others. You needed a push.” She waits for a moment, gauging Hannibal's reaction. When none is forthcoming, she continues. “Go. Claim him and be claimed. Take him with you, far away, and be with one another.”

“You want to get rid of us? That's what this was about?”

“I admit, when you first arrived I wanted nothing more than for you to be gone, but now? Now you are both welcome to remain here as long as it is safe for you to do so. Despite all you have done, Hannibal, I still wish to see you happy. He is your happiness. Go to him.”

Murasaki dabs at the corner of her mouth with a napkin then folds it up, resting it on the table next to her plate.

“Go,” she says, more gently this time, and it's like a switch has been flicked inside Hannibal. He turns and follows Will, as peace descends over the table.

“You don't think that was going a bit far, my dear?” says Robert, taking a drink of his wine.

“Perhaps,” answers Murasaki. “But I don't think anyone can deny it was effective.”

Chiyoh can only agree, and hope that it works.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has made it to the end, and once again an extra special thank you to [Choreolanus](http://choreolanus.tumblr.com) for working with me (and whose art is at the end of this chapter), and to the members of the Cannibal pub who helped me bounce around the ideas that got this fic to actually take shape ♥♥

“Will?” Hannibal calls out as he approaches Will's bedroom. He doesn't try to open the door; he would prefer to give Will the chance to invite him in of his own accord. There is no answer, so he knocks on the door, just a light tap.

“Will? Can I open the door?”

There's a grunt from inside which Hannibal chooses to interpret as assent. He opens the door to find Will sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands.

“What do you want, Hannibal?”

His voice is strained, defeated, and he doesn't look up at Hannibal.

“I believe we have ended up in the midst of a misunderstanding. Quite a large one, in fact.”

Hannibal twists his fingers together, the normally uncharacteristic indecision that has become so very characteristic when it comes to Will plaguing him once more. He takes half a step, hesitates, then continues on his path, sitting down near Will.

“Is that right?” asks Will, his voice still dull. He doesn't move.

“What do you believe to be the nature of the relationship between my aunt and myself?”

Will snorts.

“Isn't it obvious? You told me yourself you were in love with her, and now you sneak around. She doesn't even feel any embarrassment flaunting it in front of her husband. Looks like it's just me that didn't know.”

It turns out suspecting that's what Will believed, and hearing the words come from his mouth are two wildly different things. Hannibal isn't entirely sure how to respond, so he stares at his fingers, fidgeting as they are in his lap.

“You don't deny it, then?”

Will finally looks at him, and Hannibal is stunned to see him looking so defeated.

“I get it, it's not my place to get -” he chokes on his words a little, before continuing, “to get jealous, but I thought we were at a stage where we could be honest with each other.”

“Will, Lady Murasaki is my aunt, and no more than that. She has been a great support to me, it is true, but our relationship begins and ends at aunt and nephew.”

Will doesn't respond, and it is clear to Hannibal that he is struggling to believe him.

“Do you know what we have been talking about, each and every time you have found us together?”

Will shakes his head and looks away, as though afraid to hear the answer.

“You.”

Hannibal watches Will's head whip around, wills him to look at him and _see_ him the way he always has, so he will know he's telling the truth. It's not uncomfortable, baring himself to Will like this, to have those blue eyes raking through him. It feels like home.

“You locked yourselves away,” Will says, but he no longer sounds beaten, just curious.

“Ah yes,” replies Hannibal, wishing he could remain evasive but knowing that if he wants Will – and _oh_ how he wants Will – he can afford to be nothing other than entirely honest. “I must confess to something that is both embarrassing on my part, and potentially hurtful to you.”

Will's face shutters again, and Hannibal raises a hand.

“Perhaps it is best if I just show you,” he says, and stands up. He offers his hand to Will, electric shocks running through his whole body when Will takes it and stands. He could stay like that forever, no more contact between them other than their palms pressed together, but Will drops his hand once he is upright. With Will shoving his hands into his pockets once more, Hannibal is powerless to stop his gaze from taking in the way Will's pants tighten over his ass as he does. He forces his eyes back to meet Will's, who gives no indication that he has noticed.

“Lead the way,” says Will. Hannibal does. They walk to Hannibal's bedroom, the silence from downstairs entirely conspicuous. Hannibal wonders if they are still there, straining to hear, or if they have vacated the house in a bid to give them some privacy. Either scenario is as likely as the other.

He opens the door and ushers Will in ahead of him, closing the door behind them. He is nervous now, jittery in a way he does not believe he has ever been before. He can't even decide whether to just show Will, or try to justify his actions first, while Will still might listen to his explanations. They stand in awkward silence, neither man quite willing to be the one to speak first.

“Will,” Hannibal whispers, not sure where to go. He reaches a hand for Will's face, a gesture so reminiscent of the night in his kitchen in Baltimore that he expects Will to flinch away. He does not. Will's eyes flutter closed instead, and he leans in to the touch, some small amount of tension visibly bleeding away. Hannibal can scarcely believe that Will is not only allowing his touch, but actively and positively responding to it like this. He forces himself to pull away, Will's curls running through his fingertips as his hand falls. Will's eyes open slowly, the faintest of smiles dancing across his lips.

“I didn't realise how much I've been craving that until right now,” he says in a burst of straight honesty that is so very unlike them.

“I, on the other hand, have been all too aware of how much _I_ have craved it,” answers Hannibal, his eyes searching Will's blue ones for any trace of a lie and finding none. “I haven't wanted to push you, or influence you in any way,” he confesses.

“I think we're well beyond worrying about undue influence in either direction, don't you think?” Will smiles as he speaks. It is something so rare to see on his face, and Hannibal gazes at him in wonder. He would do anything, _anything_ , to see Will look at him like that again, his face so full of contentment and affection.

“Could it be that the great Hannibal Lecter is lost for words?” Will teases, jolting Hannibal out of his reverie. He hadn't noticed how long he had been standing there, silent, just watching Will.

“You always have brought new and strange things out in me, Will.”

Will's eyes soften then, and he opens his mouth as though to say something. His eyes flick behind Hannibal, though, towards the covered painting, and he closes his mouth again. Hannibal waits.

“Is that what you want to show me?” Will asks finally, tilting his head towards the stand on which the painting sits.

“Yes,” says Hannibal, a brief flurry of nerves seizing him before he settles himself once more. “I'm not sure whether to explain myself before, or after you see it.”

“After,” says Will firmly. “Just show me, and then talk.”

Hannibal complies wordlessly, stepping back and removing the cover. He watches Will's reaction closely as it shifts from mild apprehension, to shock and surprise, to confusion.

“Why am I naked?”

Of all the potential first reactions that Will could have had, this is not one that Hannibal had predicted. He didn't sound angry, or upset, just … curious.

“In my defence, I didn't start the painting.”

“Oh really? You just stumbled across it?”

“In a manner of speaking. My uncle is an artist, as you are aware. He began it, though he only completed the face. I took it from him, intending to destroy it.”

“And you what, fell into the paint and accidentally finished it?” Will speaks with a wry smile, a gentle, teasing tone to his voice.

“Its allure proved too great. I confess it is not the first time I have drawn your likeness, though it is the first time I've drawn you _quite_ like this.”

Will peers at the image before him, his eyes narrowing as he scans it.

“You've managed to get certain … _parts_ … disturbingly accurate,” he remarks. “Should I even ask?”

“I had opportunity to observe you once we made our escape from the Verger farm,” Hannibal admits. “Though I assure you, no advantage of any type was taken.”

Will contemplates the words and the painting in silence again, his hand on his chin. Hannibal is surprised at how well Will is taking it.

“It still can be destroyed, if that is what you wish.”

Will shakes his head slowly, then looks up at Hannibal.

“Is this how you really see me?” he asks. Hannibal struggles to interpret the look on his face and the tone of his voice. He could be pleased, or he could just as easily be disappointed; Hannibal has precisely no idea which it is. Once more he finds himself lost for words, battling to find the best way to respond to Will.

“Yes,” is all he can say, because he doesn't know exactly what it is that Will wants. But it _is_ how he sees him; beautiful, deadly even in repose, everything Hannibal could ever have hoped to find in an equal.

The single word from Hannibal has an effect that he can hardly believe. Will steps close and raises his hand in an echo of Hannibal's own gesture, fingertips trailing across Hannibal's skin, along his cheekbone and down his jaw, so light as to barely be noticeable if it were done by anyone but Will. Will's eyes are darting about Hannibal's face, searching for something, though Hannibal knows not what.

“Thank you.”

The words are less than a whisper, and were Will any further away Hannibal doubts he would have heard them.

“Anything, Will,” he murmurs, unable to tear his eyes away from Will's. “ _Anything_. Ask it of me, and I will do it. I am yours.”

Will's breath hitches at Hannibal's words and his fingers twitch, scratching against the skin of Hannibal's jaw.

“Anything?” he asks, his tongue darting out. The pink tip runs along his upper lip, parting it from its mate below. Hannibal is transfixed. Belatedly he remembers to nod, finding himself subconsciously mirroring Will's lip lick.

“Touch me?” Will asks, his voice almost completely inaudible now. Almost, but not quite, and Hannibal complies with no small amount of trepidation mixed with an equal level of eagerness. He lifts both his hands from his sides to cup Will's face, pushing them back just enough to run the silken strands of his curls through his fingers. They're so close together now that their breath is mingling, and it's making Hannibal dizzy. Will's free hand moves to rest on Hannibal's waist, sending something like an electric shock running through his whole body. His heart is racing, and even if he _wanted_ to bring it under control he doubts he could. He's pleased to note Will's pulse jumping just as quickly, and that the slight tremble running through his own body is also echoed in Will's.

“I've wanted this for so long,” he whispers, so close to Will now that their noses brush.

“Then take it,” is the reply, and before Hannibal even has a chance to process it Will is pushing forward, his lips grazing against Hannibal's. He is startled, barely kissing back as Will hesitantly presses their lips together, until his body and his brain reconnect and he surges forward, walking Will backwards to slam against the door, only just avoiding knocking over the painting. Will lets out a grunt as he hits the solid wood of the door, his fingers tightening their grip on Hannibal, one hand gathering up Hannibal's shirt as his fingertips dig into the skin of his waist, the other sliding back to pull on his hair. Hannibal's hands respond in kind, dropping briefly to Will's shoulders, only to drive back up his neck, cupping his cheeks for a moment, then moving into those dark, longed after curls. Their lips part, their tongues darting out to taste one another, and Hannibal thinks it is the sweetest thing he will ever taste. He's powerless to prevent the whimper that makes its way from him, just as he's powerless to maintain any sort of coherent thought. All he can see, all he can hear, or taste, or feel, is Will. The rest of the world could be being destroyed around them and he wouldn't even be aware of it. Their bodies press together, Hannibal sliding one leg between Will's, more than just gratified when Will presses his hard cock against Hannibal's thigh.

They stand together, arms and legs entwined, rutting against each other, kissing, tasting and savouring. Hannibal breaks the kiss to lick and suck his way down Will's neck, Will tilting his head to allow him better access. There are breathy little whines coming from Will, whines that increase into outright moans when Hannibal begins lightly nipping at the junction of neck and shoulder. Hannibal can't resist any longer; he begins tugging at Will's shirt, untucking it and sliding his hands over the heated skin of Will's torso. He groans as Will arches into the touch, tearing at Hannibal's clothes in his own bid to get closer.

It's almost too much, and Hannibal has to stop his thrusting hips. It has been so long since he was last touched, years since he has felt the gentle caress of a human hand like this, and he knows if he doesn't slow down now it will all be over. Will, however, has other ideas. He takes advantage of his slowing movements to fumble at Hannibal's trousers, unbuttoning them then sliding his hands back to shove them down into his underwear, grabbing handfuls of Hannibal's ass and pulling their bodies roughly together. Hannibal slams his hands against the door on either side of Will's head, panting hard in a bid to regain his composure as Will grinds their erections together. He drops his head to Will's shoulder, latching on and sucking, focussing solely on his own actions. The sounds he is pulling out of Will are distracting, to say the least. He bites down on the muscle of Will's shoulder, harder this time, relishing the way Will's fingers tighten almost painfully on his ass.

“Fuck,” groans Will, the closest thing to a rational word either of them have been capable of producing since they started this. The sound goes straight to Hannibal's cock and he knows it's futile to try holding off, to try and keep from coming when this dark and dangerous creature is writhing so beautifully in his arms. He forces his hands down between them to work on opening Will's trousers, shoving one hand into his boxers to take hold of his cock. It is hard, hot and pulsing, jumping and twitching even before Hannibal can lay a hand on it. He takes it in his grip, stroking quickly. Will lets out a strangled cry, his head slamming into the door as he throws it back.

“Let me taste you,” Hannibal all but begs. Will, panting, releases his grip on Hannibal's ass, his head nodding ferociously as he does. Hannibal needs no more encouragement, dropping to his knees before Will, his fingers trailing down Will's sides until they curl around the waistband of his trousers and boxers, pulling them both down in one swift motion. Will's cock springs free, and Hannibal takes a moment to just look, savouring both the sight and the overwhelmingly musky scent of Will. There is a bead of precome glistening on the tip. Hannibal darts his tongue out to scoop it up, shivering as the reality of what they are doing begins to set in. Will tastes even better than he could have imagined and he dives in for more, swallowing his cock in as deep as he can manage. He grasps Will's hips, holding tightly enough to doubtless leave bruises, pulling him towards himself in a bid to choke down every last millimetre of flesh he can, and he _is_ choking now, tears prickling behind his closed eyelids and _still_ he wants more. He briefly lets go with one hand to shift Will's fingers into his hair, Will needing little encouragement as his hands tighten, pulling and tugging on Hannibal's hair until he's sure that it will soon be torn from his head.

It is heaven.

He begins bobbing his head, sucking and slurping and committing to memory each and every cry that is torn from Will's throat. He slides his hands back and down, fingertips slipping into the cleft of Will's ass. They have barely brushed his entrance when Will suddenly goes rigid and his head slams against the door once more, a wild, ill-suppressed moan escaping him. His come floods Hannibal's mouth and he swallows quickly, desperate not to waste a single drop. The relentless sensation, the combination of all of senses being overwhelmed is too much for Hannibal, and he comes, on his knees and untouched before Will. He lets out a guttural groan around Will's cock, his fingernails scrapping across the skin of Will's ass.

Will tugs gently on his hair and he reluctantly releases his cock, dragging his tongue across the underside as it slips free from his mouth. Will, his entire body shaking, collapses to the floor and there they remain, held close in each other's tight embrace. Hannibal buries his face in Will's neck, breathing in his scent, knowing that if he were to try to move or speak, he would shatter into a thousand pieces. He clings instead, as though holding on to Will is what will hold him together. Maybe it is.

“Lie with me,” he whispers into Will's skin. He can't bear to let go, not yet.

“Pretty sure I just did,” Will answers, trailing his fingers through Hannibal's hair gently. Hannibal breathes out a laugh, lips quirking up into a smile.

“Biblically, yes.” He shivers again, the sense memory crashing through him in waves. “But I mean now, tonight. Lie with me. Don't let me go again.”

Hannibal can't imagine being so openly vulnerable with anyone else, can't imagine so much as feeling this way with anyone else, _needing_ the way he needs right now. But Will is different; Will has _always_ been different. There is a moment of silence, of stillness. Hannibal recognises that this is a different side of himself that Will needs to process, but he is still apprehensive. He doesn't hate what Will has made him become, but he is surprised by it, and wonders if it will last.

“I don't think I could let you go, even if I wanted to,” comes the reply at last. “We're far too entangled to ever be separated again.”

They slowly stand then, discarding crumpled and dirty clothing. They make their way to the bed and slide below the covers, Will wriggling over to rest his head on Hannibal's chest. He loves the way Will's fingers toy with his chest hair, occasionally brushing over a nipple before returning to scritch idly away. Hannibal wraps his arms around Will, holding him tight as together they drift into a deep and peaceful sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, the amazing art done by the equally amazing [Choreolanus](http://choreolanus.tumblr.com/)! Thank you so much for doing this, and everyone else should go check out the rest of her work!
> 
>  


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